Rules of Engagement
by manic-intent
Summary: beta'd by satal. Piracy grows steadily more savage after events in FFXII. In desperation, Rozarria begins development of a weapon that can counter piracy. Basch x Balthier.
1. An End to Piracy

[A/N: Yes, this title has been used for lots of novels and movies and tv shows, all of which I haven't watched/read. XD Post game, probable future Basch/Balthier, knowing me.

Rules of Engagement

1

An End to Piracy

"_It is safe to conclude now that the end to the Age of Piracy in Ivalice began with the death of Foris Zecht, better known as Reddas, the Pirate King of Balfonheim. Well-loved by his outlaw subjects, his death caused the disintegration of the quasi-disciplinary system that had kept their predations on merchant craft in check. Piracy from the Balfonheim corsairs reverted to and surpassed their original state of savagery, worsened by the bitterness they felt at what they saw as the Imperial-caused death of their leader. The freebooters and the Purveema corsairs seemed to follow suit, and in only five years after the succession war in Archadia, the countries of Ivalice began to recognize piracy as an issue of serious national security."_

-Excerpt from _Piracy after the Succession War_ by Daren Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Al-Cid Margrace looked over the Destroyer III class airship _Valefor _with a doubtful eye. Five years had not changed the ruler of Rozarria overmuch: today he wore a colorful, open-necked sun-bright yellow vest striped with blue over his ribs, folded over rich oxblood breeches. Long, dark-skinned fingers were fisted on his hips, hugged with a wide belt caught in an overly ornate lion's head buckle. Still, the Grand-Duke of Rozarria managed to look somewhat imposing under his foppish wear, even with lips pursed and his slowly graying hair tugged this way and that by an insistent breeze.

Behind him, his 'birds,' the silent women who were no doubt his personal bodyguard, stared unblinkingly at Basch with the focused intensity of cats waiting for their dinner. Basch averted his gaze quickly, but not before his trained eye picked out the faint, telltale bulges of weapons concealed under their black cotton vests and skirts.

Al-Cid being silent was not a harbinger of good things, and the tension of his all-female guard reflected that. "You feel this safe?" the Grand-Duke asked, finally, with a wave at the loading-deck before them.

They stood in the private hangar of House Margrace, a vault that had been carved somehow into the rock face under the cliff-side palace. Basch admired the complexity of the room: every inch of rock was covered in sculptures that looked as though they were emerging from the shearstone face, of men and women in dance, battle, song, death, birth, and over it all the symbol of House Margrace: a peregrine in flight, its massive wings outspread at the domed ceiling. The metal fixtures, bays, runways, controls and neon lights of a miniature air base seemed somewhat incongruous against such a backdrop.

Basch had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the babble of dialects, as members of House Margrace's guard and servants helped to load _Valefor _with the supplies it would need for its journey back to Archadia. "_Valefor_ is built for speed, and has a fair arsenal for its tonnage. What we cannot outrun we can likely outfight and we will be using the fortified trade routes. Besides," he added, with a wry smile, "'Tis not like Dalmasca's or Archadia's pirates operate together, like Rozarrian ones."

"Lone wolves will still band together when their lives are threatened," Al-Cid leaned a little over the rail as a mellow hum signaled the approach of the hovercraft that carried a box about a metre and a half in height, shrouded in white cloth. As the pilot carefully backed into the maw of _Valefor's_ compact hold, the Grand-Duke sighed. "'Tis hard to believe how something that small could be the beginning of the end of our problems."

"You put much faith in Draklor, your Grace." That was as much doubt as Basch allowed himself to voice in an official capacity, mindful of his dual duty here as a Judge and as an ambassador tasked with a mission of utmost importance.

"Even without Doctor Cid, Draklor is still reputed to be the foremost research laboratory in the world, Judge Gabranth," Al-Cid folded his arms over the cold metal rail. "It is not altruism that prompts me to allow _Valefor_ a full military escort out of Rozarrian land. I do feel however that Lady Ashelia should have met you with the same, on Dalmascan ground, for your journey to Archadia."

"You know war, your Grace. Tensions have been ebbing, but not enough that Lady Ashelia can order a Colors escort for an Imperial Destroyer without comment from her subjects. Besides, I hear her Parliament is displeased that you have not offered them a similar gift of the prototype."

"I do not want too many copies to be made. Even with a coded pass, it would be disastrous to our efforts were the pirates to get their thieving hands on one. Draklor represents the best hope outside of Rozarria for perfecting this. Besides, I have mentioned to Lady Ashelia that if Dalmasca so wishes, she may send a delegation to Archadia or Rozarria to inspect the device." Al-Cid turned away from the rail, motioning for Basch to follow. "Come, let us not speak of such matters further. We will have a final drink as friends, then board my royal flying coffin to the border."

Basch chuckled. "Not too fond of flying, your Grace?"

"Confined spaces bore me. I would wish for an attack from the Rozarrian Cartel to break the monotony, but my Generals are fair superstitious."

--

"Could you be any later?" Rikken looked harried, standing impatiently outside the iron-wrought door to the Draketongue Manse, home to the undisputed king of the Draketongue Purveema Corsairs. The Manse was beautifully constructed out of interlinked ivory-white towers that gave no hint of the reputed warren of dungeons and stone chambers below it. Only two guards stood outside the Manse, armed with pikes and dressed in the orange livery of the Draketongue Pirate King. The light guard was a sign of the man's power within his domain.

"Since you are both only getting in as part of my 'retinue' from _my _invitation," Balthier said dryly, with a nod to the guard as he handed over the gold-edged white card, "I profess myself none too sure why you are complaining."

Behind Rikken, and also dressed similarly in sober blues that the pair likely thought formal, the bangaa, Raz, sniffed at the air a little uneasily. His tail drooped, and he shook his head, plaited locks flying. "Fast. Then we leave. I do not like this place."

"Draketongue's a fair bit more grand than Balfonheim's manse," Balthier said dryly, as the guards nodded and rapped a quick pattern on the door. There was a creak, then a grinding sound as the metal was pulled open. Fran's ears twitched, but her feral eyes did not change, shifting from the beautifully hand-painted, large vases that lined the right wall at even intervals, to the snarling stone drake that curled over the arch of the door. "What does your learned nose tell you, Raz?"

"Of fear," Raz muttered, shaking his head again and falling in line behind Fran, with Rikken bringing up the rear, as they were escorted into the foyer by the guards.

Balthier studied the centerpiece of the black marble chamber as the guard consulted with another: a white stone sculpture of the Draketongue King gutting an Imperial suspended by chains from the top of the ceiling, with a hooked fish knife, in amazingly grisly detail made no less disconcerting by its lack of color. "Charming."

The sculpture, and similarly themed oil-on-canvas paintings of human mutilation hung on the walls of the otherwise empty circular room, seemed to unnerve Rikken further. "I'm beginning to think…"

"Oh come on. As if you won't admit to curiosity." Balthier grinned, looking for a moment as feral as his Viera partner, as the guards motioned for them to follow again. "You heard the word that got out. You were the one who said it would be better to get the news firsthand, as it were."

"That was before I had the pleasure of having to wait three hours for you to arrive in this delightful city and then two hours for you to actually show up at the Manse," Rikken said uneasily. "It's bad in Balfonheim now, with Reddas gone, but Balfonheim isn't a patch on this place. And I am not too sure why you were invited."

"They _did _invite all the pirates of a certain minimum bounty," Balthier pointed out, sounding aggrieved, but he had actually been pondering that himself. He had sworn no fealty to any of the pirate lords, nor did he keep much to territories. At best he was a small fish in the scheme of things, now where civilian and merchant ships only dared use the major commercial routes, which were heavily policed by the States.

Prey was difficult to find, especially now that the competition had increased in general. Sea piracy had become a far more dangerous vocation, as the first act of the governments to appease their peoples was to strike out against the slower sea craft. Furthermore, with all the Purveemas but Bhujerba now corsair ground, sea pirates tended to have either converted to the air, or gone southwards: the last he had seen of Balfonheim, its sea-port was noticeably quiet, with only a few craft moored here and there. Balthier's low profile in the sky was not so much caution but necessity, of late.

"Yours was technically forgiven due to Royal amnesty," Rikken said with a little chuckle, though the brittleness of the sound betrayed his nervousness. "So technically-"

"I never accepted the amnesty," Balthier interrupted irritably.

Raz snorted, behind Fran, but kept nervously near to the Viera, occasionally darting glances up at her ears, then at the narrow arrow-slit windows lining the left of the corridor. Columns set into the wall lined the right side, interspersed by paintings of views of the Draketongue Purveema shaded in moods of the sun. Raz's clawed feet clicked on the black marble in a dissonant harmony with the soft soles of Balthier's sandal-boots, Rikken's bucket-tops, Fran's heels, and the heavy mail tread of the two silent guards that flanked them.

"Quibbles."

"'Tis a matter of pride, Raz," Balthier retorted, but picked absently at the cuff of his right sleeve.

"Aye, I'll believe that. For you've far too much of it, lad."

"Please do not try to convince me that your nose can smell that-" Balthier began, but stopped in mid-sentence, as they came to the end of the corridor: another iron-wrought set of double doors, this one fashioned with a set of massive, crossed battleaxes sundered down the centre with the seam of the doors. One of the guards knocked again on it in a sharp staccato, and there was the grinding rasp of the door being unbarred from the inside.

It swung open to show a massive feast hall, as large as the Archadian Aerodrome, the tables thronged with all manner of pirates of different races. The hall was rectangular, its focal point a massive bronze chandelier of a sleeping serpent intertwined cunningly with neon bulbs shaped like eggs. The central table was of the finest dense rosewood, the others of veined ash, intricately carved at the edges with writhing serpents. Rich hand-woven Rozarrian carpets broke the monotony of the black marbled ground. Along the walls, in between the windows, were weapons with little bronze plaques under them. Balthier had heard that the Draketongue King enjoyed decorating his home with trophies of those he had slain.

Balthier looked cursorily over the outlaw crowd, that possessed a remarkable amount of the expected array of eye patches, prosthetic limbs, scars, before moving his attention to the long table that dominated the centre of the room, burdened with laden dishes of whole roast pigs, pheasant, stuffed greatfish, and various parts of deceased animals that Balthier could not immediately identify. At the head, rising up from a bronze throne, was the Draketongue King.

The Pirate King Ravshaa Draketongue was a small man who possessed a delicate bone structure, with slender wrists and high cheekbones. This, and the odd way he cocked his head when listening to another, made him look almost birdlike. His pale hair was cut close to his skull, and his skin was an odd bleached-bone white, but his albinism was most obvious in his maroon eyes, which were bright with a calculating, pitiless cruelty. He could have once been handsome in his youth, but his dissolute ways showed in the unhealthy yellow crescents under his eyes and the merciless cast to his lips. Dressed plainly, in a black tunic and soft gray breeches, his only adornment a Damascus steel bracelet of an ouroboros around his right arm.

Compared to Draketongue, the other occupants at the long table were dressed somewhat excessively in jewelry and ornate weaponry. Balthier vaguely recognized a few prominent and long-standing members of the corsair elite, before Ravshaa began speaking in an oddly amiable tone.

"Ah, Balthier Bunansa. We were just talking about you."

"In a favorable manner, I hope," Balthier hoped his quick grin and insouciance revealed none of his unease. He met maroon eyes evenly. "My apologies for being late, but the crosswinds to your fair island were a little difficult today."

Ravshaa blinked, slowly, smiled, and waved at the empty chair at the table, one seat away from him. "Of course, of course. Sit down, please. Your companions have seats at the other tables."

Balthier glanced at Fran, who shook her head slightly. Her expression did not change, but by the slight relaxation of her shoulders he understood Fran to be even a little relieved. Viera, after all, dislike evil.

--

Dinner was kept squarely on a range of vaguely curious topics, from the myth of mermaids to the latest Archadian politics, but over ale from wine, Sithean Sawtail, the lord of the Mozar Isles, could hold in his patience no longer. His jowls fairly humming with indignation, the ageing pirate reminded Balthier of an old pug still bristling for a scrap, and his clothes seemed to reflect that sentiment. They were weatherworn and patched over his shoulder and the vest over his paunch with studded armor. "I am sure we thank ye for yer hospitality, Draketongue, but ye've been skeery of the subject long enough. We want to know what ye know 'bout the weapon, an' we want to know what ye want to do about it, aye?"

That got a chorus of murmurs and nods from the pirates at the table. Draketongue pursed thin lips, and glanced at Balthier. "I suppose I have kept you gentlemen… and ladies," he added graciously, for the benefit of the two members of the fairer sex at the table, "long enough. It would be easier for me to start at the beginning."

"I have sources in the Justice Department and the Senate of Archadia, and they confirmed a month or so ago what most of you know: the States are developing a weapon in secret that would give them supremacy in the air. It's all in secret, and the weapon is not yet complete, so I do not know what it can do, let alone what we can do about it."

"I do know, however," Draketongue raised his voice sharply as he saw some of the others start to grumble about wasted time, "that a copy of it is about to be shipped from Rozarria to Archadia's Draklor Laboratory for completion, on a Destroyer class airship called the _Valefor_, in the utmost speed and secret. No doubt Archadia thinks – perhaps rightfully – that we pirates are very unlikely, if ever, to work together across our territories, to catch something like the _Valefor_. It is too fast for any one of us to stop before it goes across our unmarked boundaries, and it has enough firepower to help it blast through any such barricade of ships that any one of us may care to field."

"Also, it will cross from Rozarria into the Obertine Quickening, which you know is one of the most heavily reinforced trade routes between Dalmasca and Archadia. We would need to strike fast and hard at a chink in the route and intercept the Valefor."

"What's the use o' an incomplete weapon?" Invik, the bone-thin lord of the Jackal Fleet demanded. "And ye said t'was a copy. Won't do us much good."

"That is where Balthier Bunansa comes in," Draketongue said, with a smile at Balthier that would have been amiable if his eyes did not retain their habitual cruelty. "As you all also likely know, Balthier is the son of Cidolfus Bunansa, and I have it on good sources that the son surpasses the father at all things mechanical."

Balthier nodded his acknowledgment of the compliment graciously, if warily. "You want me to look at the prototype."

"And either complete it, or find a way to defend against it," Draketongue agreed. "I have full confidence in your abilities, Bunansa, and few men have ever disappointed me."

As blandly as that last was spoken, Balthier's finely honed sense of preservation saw the veiled threat instantly. He bared teeth in an answering grin. "I am flattered by your confidence."

"Have you been indulging too much in Madhu, Draketongue?" one of the women, Lady Thorn, burst out, from near the foot of the table, slamming a mailed fist against the solid wood as emphasis. A crimson-haired beauty dressed in metal and chain, Lady Thorn was reputed to rule her followers in the Chimera Purveema with brutal efficiency. "'Tis also well known that the whoreson is on good terms with the Dalmascan bitch-Queen and the Archadian brat! For all ye know…"

"Are you questioning my judgment, Thorn?" Draketongue asked, in the same bland tone, staring at the other pirate. After a long moment, her lips pulled up in a grimace, and she glanced away.

"No, Draketongue, I am only saying-"

"Your input is appreciated, Thorn, but I am never wrong on people. Bunansa values his freedom to… operate as much as any of us." Cold eyes swung over to Balthier, who had to quickly suppress an impulse to respond pertly.

"I value my freedom. A weapon that can be used against any pirate would prove highly inconvenient. And I remind Lady Thorn that though I was offered amnesty, I refused it. However, out of fairness, I invite anyone to place watch on me whenever I have to look at this… prototype." Balthier could no longer taste the wine that he swirled in the crystal glass in his hand, so great was his sudden curiosity.

"Then are we agreed?" Draketongue looked questioningly at the other pirates. There was no response, only a few mutterings here and there, noticeably nearer the end of the table. "We will withdraw to my chambers for deliberation. Time is of the essence: the prototype leaves Rozarria today, and it will take four days to enter Dalmascan airspace. In the meantime, I offer all of you and your entourages the hospitality of my Manse and city."

--

Rikken looked at his hands when Balthier finished relating what Draketongue had said at the table. They were in one of the plush guest rooms given to Balthier and Fran for the duration of their stay, Balthier having claimed that Fran was a partner to him in more ways than one. Fran having a room to herself, given the looks she had no doubt attracted on arrival, would likely be not so much cause danger to the Viera, but could provoke unnecessary incidents.

At least the gilded cage was luxury itself, with rich carpets, delicately carved oak chairs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, an attached bathroom with piped-in heated water, and a feather down four-poster with tapestry sheets. A tasseled bell-pull at a corner would summon servants at any time of day, and there were spirits in a cabinet by the arched window, which overlooked the clouds under the floating island.

"So you're saying we're grounded here."

"Up until they complete deliberations, I suppose." Balthier lay on his back on one of the long couches, arms behind his head. "Pirate lords are a paranoid sort, and air travel out of this place has been temporarily locked down for fear of spies."

"You're really going to help them, Balthier?" Raz asked quietly. The bangaa sat cross-legged on the carpet, tail twitching against a runic pattern surrounding a cross. "I do not like them, that Draketongue especially."

"You're hardly the only one in that sentiment," Balthier stared at the ceiling. "But think about it. A weapon to end piracy."

"Surely the States will only use it on the big fish. And Balthier, you _know_. We talked about this." Rikken arched an eyebrow at Balthier.

And they had: Balthier had agreed that the predations of the pirate lords were getting increasingly… deplorable. Preying on merchant vessels was one thing, but executing passenger ships for valuables was another, and raiding towns and minor cities with no care for any distinction between guards and civilians was still yet another.

"And then what, after they take out the big fish?" Balthier asked patiently. "Piracy has been endured before because it is very difficult to ferret out. Those of us that are caught are hanged. If they have a weapon, somehow, that can target pirate ships and nullify them, or whatever this weapon _does_, it's only a matter of time that I'll have to take an early retirement."

"Fran?" Rikken appealed to Fran, who was leaning against a tall framed mirror, arms folded and head bowed.

She shrugged one shoulder. "I follow Balthier's judgment in this. It matters not to me, these wars of your kind."

"Well, that's helpful," Rikken muttered. "I'm a pirate too and I know how you feel, Balthier. I do not want the States to have any such weapon against us, either. But what if you get this weapon to work, and people like Draketongue start turning it against the countries? We'll have… madness. You've seen the effect of war firsthand walking about with Queen Ashe."

"If the States think one weapon can end piracy they are naïve, and I do not think Larsa or Al-Cid would believe that. Air supremacy would be inconvenient at worst. We have already conceded the major trade routes to policing, after all." Balthier yawned. "What would likely happen is that international trade would collapse, and without fat merchant ships the big fish would start preying on each other. When they fight each other to a standstill the States will ally and finish them off. Then we will be back to equilibrium again, with only the small fish picking about on the side."

"At the cost of thousands of lives," Raz pointed out, staring hard at Balthier. "You'll want that, Bunansa? On your conscience?"

"You assume I have one," Balthier grinned then, as inscrutable as a cat, then rolled over to go pointedly to sleep.

-tbc-


	2. Butterflies and Spiderwebs

Rules of Engagement

2

Butterflies and Spiderwebs

"_The Rozarrian Pirate Cartel, better known as the 'Steel Gauntlet,' began as a part of a criminal organization known as the 'Black Lotus.__The Black Lotus controlled the racketeering, drug trafficking, brothels, money laundering and other aspects of organized crime that has permeated Rozarrian society for centuries, despite occasional efforts by its ruling House. With the sudden surge in piracy in both Dalmasca and Archadia and the political uncertainty in Rozarria regarding its new leader Al-Cid Margrace's sentiments towards old enemies, the Black Lotus' piracy arm began to quietly amass allies – and destroy enemies. By the time the authorities realized what had occurred, the piratical arm of the Black Lotus was by all rights a fully-fledged organization of its own, having control of all pirates, of the sky and of the sea, operating within Rozarria. The Cartel was led by the ambitious and brilliant Rithik Saleh up until his eventual death in the Pakes-Ialim purge." _

-Excerpt from _Piracy after the Succession War_ by Daren Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

"Ah, Balthier," Draketongue smiled when a servant ushered Balthier into a drawing room adorned with a remarkable number of preserved animals. A rearing white bear occupied one corner, and trophies of creatures ranging from Valendia's giant elk, a beautifully preserved Highlands viper, to the wing of a Dalmascan desert hawk hung from the wood-paneled walls. The centerpiece was a gorgeously preserved, massive Ridhorana Marlin, which stretched the full length of the wall, one and a half times a man's height. The opposite side of the door was a single glass pane, which looked out over a sheer drop down to roiling clouds, shaded a murky gray by the late evening.

Draketongue waved him to an armchair before the crackling fire, under a mantelpiece that looked as though it had been carved out of a single block of white marble. A bottle of aged brandy and crystal glasses were arranged next to a box of fine cigars on the low table between them, as Balthier sat down and watched the servants leave. "Draketongue. It has been a day. I suppose the deliberations have finished?"

"Yes, and quite satisfactorily. We will attack the route when it closes near the Urutan Yensa, because they are unlikely to expect us to field modified fleet ships in concert, and the Jagd will disrupt their sensors. The airship we will crash into the Yensa as a diversion. We will capture the crew and the prototype, and return to this Manse." Draketongue paused for a long drag of his cigar, his eyes half-lidded.

"I profess myself surprised that the… others would have agreed to that," Balthier said slowly. He knew he was stalling a little, though he supposed he could really guess why Draketongue had asked him here. No doubt the issue of his affiliation to Dalmasca and Archadia was still a point of contention.

"It was definitely _hotly_ contested," Draketongue admitted wryly. "But of all the Manses mine is the only one equipped with a laboratory. I have many interests that most find esoteric."

_Perverse, you mean_, Balthier thought quietly in his mind, but said nothing. The Draketongue laboratories were just as infamous as its dungeons.

"I did not call you here to bore you with politicking, however," the diminutive King said, after rolling another inhalation of cherry smoke in his mouth with practiced pleasure. "There is something I have withheld from my learned colleagues." Cold eyes were hard as they studied Balthier. "My sources tell me that _Valefor_ is escorted by a handpicked team from the Justice Department of Archadia. Headed by one Judge-Magister Gabranth."

Balthier kept his expression carefully bland. "That would be expected. Judge-Magister Zargabaath is old, and the new Magisters are likely to be too inexperienced. Gabranth is highly trusted by Solidor."

"I have followed your career with great interest, Balthier," Draketongue said, with another deep lungful of smoke. "After all, in this middling earth the most remarkable phenomena are Humes, and keeping up with the lives of people I find curious is a private hobby of mine."

"Pleased, I am sure," Balthier said dryly.

"So," Draketongue continued, as though Balthier had not spoken, "I certainly did follow your little sojourn with the current Dalmascan Queen with great interest. And… I apologize, I am being tiresome referring to unnamed sources – but I am aware, that a member of the group was a twin brother to Judge-Magister Gabranth. And that conveniently, despite being identical, this twin brother sported an old scar from the middle of his forehead to his left ear."

Balthier knew when to play his hand, and when to fold. "Basch fon Ronsenburg."

"Now known as Gabranth, after the death of his brother at the end of the succession war, I believe," Draketongue's stare was unwavering.

"You need to know where my loyalties lie." The pirate king nodded. Balthier settled deeper in his chair, with a carefully lazy smile. "A long time ago I abandoned everything for the life of a pirate, Draketongue. And I was never too close to Basch: he was quite preoccupied with his role as a knight."

"Ah. That fits with what I have heard, that the only notice you left on account of your survival you gave to your young friends." Draketongue was nodding absently to himself, even as Balthier felt a faint chill. How much did the man know? "So you would not hesitate, were he to stand in your way."

"I would hope you do not wish him killed. I bear him no ill will," Balthier said as insouciantly as he could, to cover the seed of unprecedented anxiety that took root. "He has saved my life several times."

"Unlike my… peers, Balthier, and despite my reputation," Draketongue inspected the hue of the brandy in his glass, "I am not given to unnecessary cruelty, you could say. There is a fine balance between piracy remaining as one of several 'problems' for a State to becoming the foremost one, and I do not feel that our kind can afford Archadia's undivided attention. The murder of a Judge-Magister would do that as surely as if we were to launch an attack on Archades itself and murder civilians."

"And the kidnap of a Judge-Magister would not?" Balthier inquired.

"Death is one thing, kidnap is another," Draketongue shrugged. "The latter, unfortunately, is necessary. I have been told that the operation of the prototype depends on a password, and Basch is the only one on _Valefor_ privy to it. I would prefer to extract this password from him through amiable means, of course."

Balthier narrowed his eyes. "You want me to persuade him to give it up."

"Or crack the password without his aid. I am sure that you are capable of performing either," Draketongue's smile was a snake's, a thin, merciless line etched across his jaw, a threat yet not a threat, that slipped away quickly into cigars and brandy and lighter discussions about airships.

--

The Cartel made their bid for the prototype at the border city of Bhar-Est. Basch greatly disliked air combat and the helplessness it made him feel: all he could do was stay at the cockpit of the Destroyer and watch the crew attend the various arcane controls of the ship nervously. He had been told flatly by Al-Cid not to issue any orders, as the Margrace fleet would be 'handling' the matter.

From the grav-screens that floated before him he could tell the Cartel's tactics seemed typically piratical: hit and run with fast vessels, sniping at the cannons that adorned the two Cruiser-class warships that bore the Margrace symbol. It seemed wrong, to him: what was the point of the battle? Unless the pirates were mad, they could not possibly, in the face of the full might of the Margrace fleet, hope to even damage the Cruisers very much at all, let alone board the _Valefor_.

Basch frowned as he thought that over, staring absently at the holographic screens. There were three of them, large squares that hovered before the semicircle of the main control platform where he stood. One was a radar map, with circles of different colors indicating which airship was which, with a pale red oval indicating the city-town beneath them. One was a direct feed from the airships' receivers, which he could flick through when he so wished. The last was a communications screen. The technology was Doctor Cid's, only partially developed at the time of his death, and completed a year ago by his assistants.

He stared hard at the red oval, keeping in mind all the strategies that he had learned over the years of his life, sucked in his breath sharply, and turned to regard the first mate. "Bring up Al-Cid Margrace on communications, please."

"Yes, sir." The whiskery, middle-aged old hand turned to a smaller set of controls at the base of the main control platform, and began to access the intercom.

Al-Cid looked harried when his face came up on the holographic screen. "Yes, Judge-Magister?"

"The city-town of Bhar-Est, Lord Al-Cid," Basch said formally, given that they were both in hearing distance of their subordinates. "I think this a feint. There is no real point why the pirates would choose to attack us like this, when they can achieve nothing but their own losses."

"What about Bhar-Est?" Al-Cid inquired, turning for a moment from the screen to shout something in the Rozarrian tongue that almost entirely constructed of vowels.

"There must be a reason why the pirates chose this moment to attack us, when by your reasoning they must have known of our purpose before I had even arrived in Rozarria." Al-Cid had a very high opinion of the Black Lotus' information network, which Basch was not quite sure whether was overestimation. "I have read some reports of this Cartel, and it appears that one of their favorite methods of operation is to take hostages."

"And so you think this is all a distraction, whilst an elite number of their forces capture Bhar-Est?" Al-Cid seemed amused, disconcertingly so.

"Yes," Basch kept an iron grip on his patience. "And so I propose that we send a contingent down to Bhar-Est at once. The villagers should be evacuated, at least."

"Very good for a foreigner," Al-Cid said, not unkindly. "But we are already aware that they may try that. As you have said, it _is_ one of their favorite methods."

"So you have-"

"Sorry to interrupt, Lord," Al-Cid's first mate, a stolidly built man with an angular face spiked with a mane of jet-black hair, pushed his face into the communications screen. He was evidently speaking Common for Basch's benefit. "We have received reports that the pirates have taken the bait. Jaidin, Estkar, they are the leaders."

"I spoke earlier to you in the lounge of Rozarria's resolve, Basch," Al-Cid looked back at the screen, and his eyes were hard now, none of the playfulness of a wayward Prince. "This is our resolve."

The Grand-Duke reached out behind him, and keyed a sequence into his main controls. At that moment, the central feed screen switched to an overhead view of Bhar-Est. Basch felt puzzled, for a moment, then gasped as a violent explosion blew apart the steeple of the central temple. A series of smaller explosions tore apart the town hall, then the buildings around it. Horrified, Basch and his crew turned their eyes to the steelglass windows of the cockpit, and watched as a plume of dirty brown smoke began to billow up from the burning village.

"Al-Cid…" Basch looked slowly back at the screens, his jaw set. He felt rare anger begin to flush his cheeks. "You… that was…"

"No need to worry," Al-Cid said dryly, though his face remained grim. "The villagers were evacuated an hour ago, in secret. I now have some men on the ground who will look through the rubble to confirm if Jaidin and Estkar are dead. They are key lieutenants of the Gauntlet."

"Still, your peoples' houses, their _livelihoods_…"

"They will be amply compensated." Al-Cid turned away from the screen, again speaking orders in Rozarrian, keying other sequences on the controls. "I have seen the remnants of a captured town, only a week before your visit, Judge-Magister. The men were all murdered and hung on a tree. The women were raped, and then their bellies were cut open and they were left to bleed to death. The children were removed for slavery. The town was Jad'salam, and it was destroyed because the Cartel found that we had an informant living within it. A month before that, another town, Omarka, was razed to the ground, the people beheaded, because the Council dared voice its support for government causes. The Cartel – the Black Lotus – operates on fear."

Basch understood the sentiment, had heard stories about the savagery of the Rozarrian Cartel, but could not help but feel sickened, watching the town burn. From the color of the stone and the structure of the buildings, he knew the town was old, and likely had been the ground for many ancestral homes. This form of remote 'combat' had no honor, and he felt that there was an important line between what was justice and what was merely retribution. Here, he could not quite see it. Pirates were criminals, not combatants, and this was execution without trial.

"This is not war."

"No, Judge-Magister." Al-Cid did not raise his eyes. "One does not make war on animals."

--

Balthier looked sourly over the wing of the _Strahl_ at the pirates whom Draketongue had said he was to accompany. Thorn stared back at him from the gangway of her private airship _Wild Rose_, a gorgeous, sleek white craft armed with tracer missiles and apparently crewed only by other women, dressed similarly to their mistress in mail shirts and sober breeches. There was also a Moogle, tiny even for its race, also dressed in a tiny mail shirt and breeches, waddling up and down the gangway and directing the loading of supplies with waves of a spanner.

_Wild Rose_ was about twice the size of the _Strahl_, and was reputed to be both quick and deadly. It was to lead a point attack on the _Valefor_ to draw its fire. Much smaller than the _Valefor_ and known to contain a pirate Lord, it was hoped that the _Valefor _would engage, giving Sithean's Destroyer _Angry Sky_ time to power up and aim its grid net. After that, it would be up to Draketongue's _Dragon Claw_ to board and capture the _Valefor_.

Far too much could go wrong in that scenario, in Balthier's opinion, but he kept his peace. Besides, the _Strahl_ was to remain behind the Destroyers in the Jagd, safely out of combat, and that suited him well.

Thorn strode over, with little in her walk save the slight sway of her hips looking anything but mannish. She extended a mailed fist at Balthier, and it took a quick exertion of self-control not to flinch. Behind him, Rikken and Raz took a collective step back, which made Fran sniff in amusement. It took him a moment to realize the hand was extended in conciliation, given the grimace Thorn was wearing, and he shook it cautiously.

"Sorry 'bout my outburst in the Hall, Bunansa," Thorn said after another uncomfortable moment, her eyes darting away. "I am not saying I trust ye, but I'm saying it wasn't right of me to judge ye just like that. Draketongue's told me more of ye last night, and hells, if ye can help us with this weapon against us pirates of the air, I would not give an ass' piss whether yer bedding the Dalmascan Queen."

"Is that what they say about me now?" Balthier grinned, with a nod acknowledging the apology. His hand smarted. Thorn's grip had been bruising.

Thorn's stare was hard and uncompromising. " 'They' say many things about ye, Bunansa, but I'm giving ye the benefit of doubt, for now. Since we're working on the same thing, I don't think 'tis necessary for us to be enemies."

"I would not wish to be your enemy." Balthier decided he could be gracious. The very large, blackened broadsword over Thorn's back helped. The strength of her grip already suggested that she would be able to wield that with ease. The polished shoulderplates, etched with a rose on the verge of blooming, sat easily over shoulders that were a little too broad to be attractive on a woman. Thorn was easily as tall as he was, with her red hair was tied severely into a long, thick braid that brushed at her hips. A plain leather baldric ran from under her right shoulderplate to her hips, holding the scabbard of the broadsword against her back. She wore smaller daggers at either side from her waist. Her blackened chainmail shirt looked unnecessarily heavy, and the padded undershirt she wore underneath it almost managed to eliminate all evidence of womanish curves. Her gloves and boots were scale mail, each tiny scale an iridescent green.

Thorn nodded tightly at him, and strode back to her airship. Behind him, Rizzen's sigh of relief was audible. Balthier turned to arch an eyebrow at him, and the other sky pirate grinned somewhat sheepishly. "Pretty, but… a tiger," Rikken said, careful to keep his voice soft, and jerking his head at Thorn's retreating back.

"Yer crazy," Raz said decisively, at the same moment Balthier snorted.

"Feel free to go over and chat her up," he said, following Fran into the hold of the _Strahl_ to make some last minute checks.

"Hell no," Rikken said, with feeling, as he wandered up to lean against a metal plated wall, watching Balthier check the internal glossair engine. "The women I like are sweet, demure, kind and thoughtful."

Raz guffawed, just as Balthier twitched lips into a smirk. "I should tell Elza the next time I visit Balfonheim."

"She'll shoot you a new hole in your arse," Raz agreed. A bangaa's version of a smirk was toothy, and far more evil. Rikken rolled his eyes at the both of them, and punched Balthier lightly on the shoulder as he pushed past the engine room to the small cabins.

"You laugh now, but all men like those sorts of women."

Balthier shrugged, concentrating on the rings. "Women or men, it takes more than personality to catch my eye, and if they happen to be docile, I am more likely to mistake them for sheep."

"Didn't know your tastes ran that way," Raz's smirk widened. "The four legged beasties, that is."

"Women or men, eh?" Rikken considered this thoughtfully from the doorway. "See now, the last party you brought about Balfonheim… the kids were a little irritating, the Queen was ice, and the last one I'll have found interesting, if I was so inclined. But silent and…"

"Docile," Balthier vaguely recalled his impressions of the blonde knight who had more or less faded into the background once Ashe had come into the picture and dragged them all into her problems. Despite his words to Draketongue, he felt uncertain about what he would really do, when faced with Basch. The man had, after all, saved his life before, and he was not a bad sort, in Balthier's books. Besides, Fran liked him, a rare accolade from the Viera, who tolerated most Humes only. "Hardly said a word."

He had not told the others about his last meeting with Draketongue, having decided to think it over himself first. As such, Balthier paid little attention to the other pirates' reminisces, finishing his final checks on the glossair engine and the synch coils, speaking only at a break in the conversation. "Are you sure you do not want to come along, Rikken, Raz?"

"You'll have your little adventure, Bunansa," Rikken drawled. "And be sure to come by Balfonheim some time to tell us all about it. The company's here a little too sharp for the likes of us, and Elza will kick us off the nearest cliff if we leave her alone to manage Balfonheim too long."

Managing Balfonheim was, these days, more a matter of keeping a lid on an explosive keg and fatalities to a minimum than exerting any form of Reddas' order, but Balthier decided just to smile. "See you in Balfonheim."

"Bring the brats if you find them!" Rikken waved as he filed off the gangway with Raz. To Balthier's right, he could hear the growing roar as the engines of _White Rose_ powered up. An insistent beeping and a hiss of pneumatics told him that Fran had initiated take-off procedures, and the gangway was retracting.

He walked briskly to the cockpit and settled in one of the pilots' seats before the controls of his beloved ship. Fran was already concentrating on dials and readings, her clawed hands moving by rote and habit. He had been her partner for years, and he could tell from the set of her slender shoulders that she was tense. This 'little adventure' likely bothered Fran more than she would care to admit.

As they watched the Draketongue aerodrome's attendants scurry about in a last minute check for obstacles that may hamper the take-off of Thorn's ship, Balthier decided it was as good a time as any. "Fran. If there is anything you dislike about this, we could leave."

Fran looked down at her long fingers, then over to her companion. "I dislike much about this, Balthier. This place stinks of excess, and that Hume Draketongue especially. But stopping what may clip our wings is important to you."

"You sound disbelieving."

"I would have thought your first reaction to try and outrun this." In Fran's eyes there was no room for dissemination, and Balthier could never lie to her.

"Flying south to avoid the winter? I think this one would be more akin to a plague than something that can be weathered." Balthier had to catch himself from tugging at his sleeves. Before them, the _White Rose_ lifted gracefully into the air, then shot forward into the blue sky. "Besides, I am sure it would not be above the likes of Draketongue to resort to violence, and despite our best attempts at running, Fran, both of us still have people of consequence about whom we care to protect."

Fran was silent, no doubt thinking of Eruyt. His point proved, Balthier coaxed the _Strahl_ into flight.

-tbc-


	3. The Means, The Ends

[A/N: I once had a long discussion with a friend from the US regarding information extracted under torture. As background, I study law with a lean towards human rights and intellectual property, while both of his parents are Judges. I disagreed that torture is ever necessary and that it should be soundly denounced by anybody purporting to belong to a free and civilized world. It was his belief that sometimes it could be justified, where the information could save lives in some way. This was in the context of discussing the early Guantanemo issues, before all the habeas corpus matters came up, where we assumed for the purposes of the discussion that all the tortured inmates were guilty of terrorism.

Rules of Engagement

3

The Means, The Ends

"It remains a popular topic of discussion today how the infamous pirate lord known commonly as Ravshaa Draketongue came to be a corsair. His personal life before his outlawry was jealously guarded, and those who had known him in his childhood had likely either become part of his later, fanatically loyal retinue, or were murdered. The most widely accepted theory places Draketongue as Sahnee Mahrun, the albino son of a potter born in the middle-class district of Uren, in the Draketongue Purveema, now known as the Renshian Purveema. A few early portraits signed by Mahrun had been recovered by the Draketongue Bank, and experts have posited that the style of brushwork, sensitivity and composition were closely similar to the paintings in the Draketongue Manse, painted and signed by the lord himself. Certainly paintings both by Mahrun and by Draketongue are priceless works today, and have recently been named national treasures by the Renshian Government. The portraits and a few scattered scraps of his neighbors' journals remain the only memory of the boy Draketongue could have been…"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, Archadian University Press

"I hope you do not think ill of Rozarria because of my words," Al-Cid said. They sat in an ivy-grown pavilion on the very edge of the Nadran River, which marked the border between Dalmasca and Rozarria. A century or more ago, Al-Cid had said, the border tended to move during the wet seasons, and had been the cause of a few border skirmishes.

Basch sipped bitter Nadran tea as he thought about his answer, served by a nervously smiling, withered old man with skin baked brown and leathery by the sun.

The convoy had more or less descended on the river town of Nadra, a mile or so from Bhar-Est, to bid the _Valefor_ safe journey. Al-Cid and Basch sat at the sole café and restaurant that the tiny town possessed, that sat at the very edge of the river and only possessed five tables. The café was run by a family who seemed quite overwhelmed by their customers: Basch had no doubt this visit would be told to all further generations to come.

The thought was a little depressing.

"No, I do not." Basch settled for the diplomatic answer. Only a metre away, the river wound a wide silver ribbon under the hot mid-afternoon sun, down towards the Bhar-Est delta. River birds, egrets, white with stilt legs and graceful, long necks, and a small family of dust-brown ducks and ducklings watched them incuriously from the sluggish water.

Al-Cid, however, as a politician, could read easily between the lines. "But you do not approve of our methods."

"No," Basch admitted.

"I will be honest with you now in telling you, destroying a town to cut one of the heads off the hydra, it is the least of what we do." Al-Cid took a stick of crumbed and fried goat's cheese delicately between thumb and forefinger and nibbled it. "Hn. This is surprisingly good. I must speak to my chef back at the Margrace Hold."

"The least of what you do?" Basch blinked.

"Fewer and fewer informants are ready to come forward these days, as the hold of the Gauntlet grows stronger," Al-Cid washed down the bite with a sip of wine. The wine had been from his airship, an aged Eastern Rozarrian vintage that had a bite too sharp for Basch's taste. "So we have had to change our methods of gathering information on their activities."

"You mean torture." Basch could not hide his distaste even if he wanted to. His shoulders ached, abruptly and without rational reason, the memory of Nalbina etched forever into his flesh. He knew that he had been lucky. The torture had been only physical, and other than the slash across his face, nothing visibly disfiguring. He had always suspected his brother's hand in that: certainly any infection had quickly been treated, and the level of food deprivation seemed carefully maintained at something tolerable.

"I understand your feelings, given your… experience," Al-Cid said, with a politician's smooth smile, which quickly disappeared as he lowered his eyes as though in embarrassment. "By Ashan's beard, did I just say that?" When Basch chuckled, Al-Cid shook his head. "Pinch me if I slip into that sort of speech before you again, my friend. I have not had much sleep of late. But I do believe that sometimes, the methods are necessary. You know about the savagery of the Gauntlet's predations."

"And how often have your methods worked?" Basch inquired skeptically. He already knew the answer to this. The words of men who broke under torture were suspect.

"A few times only," Al-Cid admitted. "But a few times is enough."

Basch sighed. "I do not feel that inhumanity can ever justify inhumanity."

"I would speak to you of sacrifices and necessity, but I think I should save my breath," Al-Cid's smile was wry. "That is why I rule Rozarria and why you are a Judge. I do not intend offence."

"None taken," Basch acknowledged the sentiment with a nod. Even Larsa tended to slip into politic-speech, when weary, and he knew that Al-Cid was not the sort of man given to malice or petty words. Leaders were oft so, and he found the Grand-Duke impressive, if stubborn under the extravagant playboy personality. Horror should never beget horror: when then, would the cycle close? _Only after extermination_. That was what _this_ was about, then. Closing the circle. An eventual destruction of all pirate havens, perhaps, one by one.

Basch tried to visualize the feeds of devastated towns that he had seen before, victims of piracy, both in Rozarria and in Archadia, but found he could not dispel the sour taste in the back of his throat.

He had not controlled his expression well enough. Al-Cid glanced at him, then away, picking up another stick of fried cheese. "Your face is too open, Basch. You cannot hide your condemnation."

"You know that I too, do not intend offence," Basch chose his words carefully.

"And I find it an unfortunate consequence of office that we have to speak so even between friends," Al-Cid's tone was light, but he did not meet Basch's eyes. "Safe journey, Basch! My people believe that the Nadra is a lucky place from which to begin a path of change. May this be so."

--

It was a clear day in the Urutan-Yensa Jagd, unusual for the season. Usually the Sandsea would be rife with treacherous sandstorms that made navigation even on the most advanced, modified cruisers difficult at best. Balthier felt restless, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his seat, having checked over the controls for the fifteenth time. He brought up the grav screens: his favorite and most recent addition to the _Strahl_. Below, the nomads were riding their odd, fish mounts in circles under the blocks of shade that the airships painted with the midday, occasionally waving barbed pikes up at the silent invaders.

The sides of the waiting ships occasionally flickered silver: they were shielded at the moment by a central cloaking device from Wraithwind's airship. Like the localized one available on the _Strahl_, movement would dispel the game, and so Sithean's grid net had only a short window of time to deploy.

He remembered the excessively uncomfortable trip through the Yensa towards Raithwall's tomb. It had been far too hot for what he had available to wear, and the multitude of skittering nomads had made it unfeasible to strip down to just his breeches. Their water supplies were heavy, and he, Basch and Vossler had ended up carrying much of the portions of the others. The baking heat, the near-constant skirmishes with the nomads, the frustrating maze of intersecting rigs, and the scalding-hot metal about them that made even walking uncomfortable had made it a hard trek for Ashe, and a particularly difficult one for Vaan and Penelo, city children all their lives, without the two years of guerilla warfare that Ashe had undergone.

Not something he would ever like to repeat. It was only a mercy that none of them had fallen prey to sunstroke. The only one seemingly unbothered by the journey had been Fran, her Viera constitution having a different and more efficient way of dealing with heat and the needs of water. Odd, given that they were a jungle race. Vaan had been theorizing about the long ears as cooling fins – out of Fran's hearing, of course.

Drifting in memories, he looked up only when Fran tapped his arm gently with clawed fingers. "Yes?"

"I am surprised that they," Fran waved a finger at the Draketongue cruiser that blocked out the sun from the right side of the Strahl, "let us move about separately on the _Strahl_. Did you not say that they felt you important to their cause?"

"That cruiser could just as easily shoot us down were we to have tried to leave at any time," Balthier said dryly. "Besides, Draketongue's words were, 'Why not ride your _Strahl_ as a gentleman's escort to the _Rose_?' A joke and an illusion of freedom both, I should think. It is with such illusory concessions that he has woven much of his empire from puppet strings, I hear." Balthier imitated Draketongue's sibilant, soft voice playfully.

"_Humes_," Fran sniffed, in just _that_ tone that made Balthier chuckle.

"I have not heard that comment from you for years."

Fran was silent. The last time she had used the word in that manner was a year after she had become acquainted with Reddas. He found her excessively interesting culturally, and was forever attempting to speak her language, plying her with copious questions. Fran had been a little taken aback by a male Hume who showed this much interest in her that was not sexual, and had first attempted patience. It had taken a few months for Fran to be convinced that Reddas was not merely trying to be an annoyance, and she was fairly fond of him. Had been.

Balthier supposed Reddas' death could have saddened Fran, though even he could not tell. He guessed it was more likely that Fran had long stopped being capable of feeling grief over the death of her Hume companions, or at least, not for very long. He did not think that cold of her, merely necessary.

White words printing over the flat blue of the central grav screen interrupted his train of thought, notifying the pair of an incoming transmission from the Draketongue cruiser.

Draketongue's face faded into view. He was dressed in a blue robe today, his only concession to the change in his surroundings a white dagger scabbard on his hip. "Good afternoon, Balthier. I thought you would like to know that the _White Rose_ will engage the _Valefor_ in about five minutes."

"Ahead of schedule." Balthier murmured. The _Valefor_ had made good time. Again, he felt a bubble of uncertainty about the whole business surface in his mind, but he ignored it.

"Indeed. It remains to be seen whether the _Valefor_ will take the bait: we have little chance of snaring it on hyperdrive. We will forward you the feed from the spy ships we have scattered about the Route, if you wish."

"All right. Thank you," Balthier said, straightening in his seat, as the communications screen winked back to blue. This, at least, should be interesting.

The real-time screen flickered to show a high overhead stretch of the Obertine Quickening, a stretch of empty, jagged mountains criss-crossed by a series of tiny silver streams that marked the beginning of the Obertine river, that emptied later into an inland lake close to the Rozarrian border.

The sound of a large ship in hyperdrive reached the feed first. Immediately Balthier could see the problem: _Valefor_ had chosen not to take the bait, after all, and the White Rose was hotly pursuing it. It could easily outpace her to the Rabanastre checkpoint and thence on enter into the heavily defended Archadian-policed half of the trade route. Balthier did not feel surprised: Basch, after all, had a very strong sense of duty and priorities, and did not possess any element Balthier had observed of personal greed or ambition.

If duty dictated his moves, then there was no way they could catch the _Valefor_. The grid-net was too slow to snare a ship in hyperdrive, and Draketongue had professed a fear that if they shot down the destroyer they could by accident destroy the prototype as well.

Men were, however, in Balthier's experience, ruled by a set of concurrent abstractions, be it religion, duty, greed or honor.

The solution to their problem presented itself instantly, just as Balthier realized that it would constitute a betrayal of any friendship he possessed between himself and the knight-turned-Judge. In his case, however, or so he told himself, the preservation of his free life as a sky pirate, the core element of his sense of self, was the abstraction that ruled him, and he did not hesitate.

"Fran," he said, as he leant forward in his seat, fingers dancing over the controls, then settling on the triggers. The _Strahl_, sensitive to his touch, hummed out of idle with fluid ease. "I think the bait needs to be a little more palatable, would you not agree?"

Fran understood what he meant instantly. Her eyes narrowed, even as she settled into the automation of routine, adjusting the controls for flight. "You are sure about this, Balthier?"

"A free bird would fight to the death for its wings, Fran," Balthier answered, even as Draketongue came up on transmission.

"Balthier, what _are_ you doing?"

"Watch and see, Draketongue," Balthier said merrily, and by the Gods, despite circumstance and what he was about to do, it felt _good_ to say that to the man. "Bring up Thorn for me on encrypted, please. I do not know her codes."

Draketongue frowned, but the screen changed quickly to Thorn's strained face. "What are ye planning, Bunansa?"

As Balthier told her his idea, Thorn began to laugh.

--

Basch felt tension frozen in his limbs as he gripped the rail next to the central controls. They would outrace the _Rose_, and she could not engage combat at this speed. It would only be a matter of hours before they reached the Rabanastre point, then they would be safe. There could be no complications, and he had known that the pirates would make a bid for this craft sooner or later. Everything was under control…

"Sir," the First Mate said suddenly, from the radar panels to his right, "Another craft just came up on the readings. Do you want a visual?"

"Very well," Basch frowned. There was no harm, and they were not about to slow, after all.

The real-time feed cleared, to show a ship in a horribly familiar color and shape. "Pick up the broadcast, if there is any," Basch said, dreading confirmation. But he could recognize that ship anywhere: had spent the most desperate weeks of his life years ago traveling about in it, after all.

Balthier's purring velvet of a voice cut into the broadcast feed. Airships could communicate with each other without encryption over sound, if they wished, using the old system that was still inbuilt in most airships. The security problems with identification had been solved with the grav screens, all encrypted and coded uniquely to each ship, but most airships preferred to use the less complicated voice feed even now, save for official communications.

"Lady Thorn! How fare you this fine day, my dear?"

"Balthier, ye _bastard_," Thorn snarled, "Ye return that box ye stole from me this instant!"

With a sinking heart, Basch turned his eyes to the real feed. Sure enough, the _White Rose_ was disengaging to combat.

"I heard from a little bird that you were passing this way, sweet lady, and thought I should remind you that you took _my _Arcturus. Your box of trinkets and your cat were poor compensation."

Balthier was _insane_. The _Strahl_ flew headlong to meet the _Rose_, then drew level to keep up pace with them. The _Rose_ had already started firing tracers at the smaller airship that left white streams of smoke etched in the blue. The sky pirate was laughing, delighted and fierce, as though engaging in a grand joke. Likely, either Balthier did not understand his peril, or his ego was far larger than Basch had thought. And surely this was the worst of all coincidences, but so much like Balthier, to play cat-and-mouse so dangerously: he had seen it on the approach to the _Bahamut_, in the feral smile that Balthier wore, flying headlong into the fleet and dodging enemy and friendly fire both, a virtuoso of a performance, with his beloved ship.

"Such a warm welcome? Tsk, my dear, I'll think you missed me."

Thorn began to call Balthier a series of names that no respectable lady should know, and which made even the seasoned sailors of the _Valefor_ blink. Basch rubbed his temple with a groan. He should have known that this was the result of Balthier's philandering ways, just that this time the sky pirate had played at court with a lady who happened to possess a far more powerful airship than his. He was likely provoking her now just for the hell of it.

Then disaster struck: a playful barrel roll to avoid a wild barrage of tracers found the volley to be a feint: a single tracer fired to the right adhered to the _Strahl_'s wing in a ribbon of white smoke.

Balthier muttered, "Oh _fuck_," into the broadcast just as Thorn growled, "Got ye, ye whoreson!"

The tracer-missile was a gray dart that exploded into autumn hues and dirty brown smoke on the _Strahl's _orange frame. Instantly, the smaller airship's flight became erratic: it began to dive, then Balthier bit out a curse over the broadcast, as he barely managed to avoid another tracer.

Basch took a breath. Duty instructed that he race on for Rabanastre. But if he left Balthier to die here, now…

Besides, the _Rose_ was distracted by its mistress' revenge, and this would likely be short work. He turned to the First Mate. "Disengage to combat and turn around. Target the Rose."

"But sir!" the First Mate blinked. "We should-"

"Balthier Bunansa is a close friend of both Queen Ashelia and Lord Larsa," Basch said, turning his gaze anxiously back to the feed. "We have to aid him." He had few enough personal friends to sacrifice any to duty.

--

Balthier grimaced as his _Strahl_ shuddered and jerked beneath them: the old girl was in pain, but she was bearing up fairly well. Damage to that particular section of the wing would always look far worse than it was: if need be he could still land, and it was not close enough to the glossair rings to make the chance of spreading fire disastrous.

The _Rose_ was carefully shooting to miss, now: he watched the white tails of tracers sketch the sky past the cockpit. He supposed another 'hit' would be in order, were the _Valefor_ to continue in hyperdrive.

No, success: radar showed the _Valefor_ had slowed, and was turning about. The real-time feed cut in then, with a fine image of the Destroyer, its twin _Ark_ cannons under its sleek nose powering up with orange rings of pure energy. Not particularly the most forgiving of weaponry to use, but lethal in the right hands, and the _Rose_ was easily within range, even here. He could see Thorn's tension in the encrypted communications feed of the grav screen. The grid nets had to be deployed _now_, or a good shot would give the _Rose_ a smoking hole in her hull: worse, if the cannons were manned by a new crew, the _Strahl_ could be a victim of the _Valefor's_ rescue attempt. A wayward beam from an _Ark_ cannon would destroy his smaller craft utterly.

Pale blue lines slithered forward, then, like the tentacles of a man o' war, gleaming and beautiful in the sunlight, and deadly for any ship they would encounter, and Sithean's squat, massive black cruiser faded out of stealth. They wrapped fast around the _Valefor_ as it executed its turn, then Balthier took in a slow breath as the stasis field charged up, blue electricity writhing down the lines. The orange rings powered down, and he saw Thorn breathe a sigh of relief from the grav screen.

"We're standby to help ye if ye need help limpin' up to a cruiser," she said then, as Balthier switched off the broadcast. There was no real point, though: the fact that the _Rose_ had stopped firing at him and was now just cruising sedately close by would tell Basch eloquently enough of the double-cross.

"I think we can manage," Balthier said absently, checking the fuel and altitude readings on the panels, as Fran turned the _Strahl_ towards the Jagd. As much as he told himself that what he had done was necessary, it did not dispel the growing sickness he felt. Bile.

He turned off the live feed as the boarding party approached the _Valefor_. The stasis field's electrical charge should make its crew docile, at least, and he did not want to see if Draketongue would keep to his word that he would not murder the men he thought 'unnecessary'.

-tbc-


	4. One of Them

[A/N: Wow. I had originally intended to more or less leave long fic writing for FFXII, but... where's all the Bxb of late: ( 

Rules of Engagement  
4  
One of Them  
_  
"Lady Thorn's origins are no secret, told in folktales even today in the Chimera Purveema that she ruled during her lifetime. She was Maisy Tam, the eldest of three daughters of a cobbler, sold to a brothel for enough rice for a month; her second sister sold to a slaver for rice for the next. Life was hard for the poor on Chimera: the gap between the rich and the destitute was insurmountable, and the influence the rich had on the corrupt government made the tax on the poor crippling. Then came the pirate raids, led mostly by Richter the Boar. Chimera's armada were ill equipped to respond, their funds much laundered to line the pockets of the rich elite, and soon the city had conceded all of its Lower Quarter and half of its Merchant district to piracy. The pirates were, by all reports, somewhat surprised to be welcomed, often with open arms, by the citizenry in the streets. Several stories circulate about the meeting of Thorn and Richter, which I will not detail. Regardless, they became lovers. Thorn proceeded to spend the next few years searching futilely for her lost second sister, up till Richter's death and her inheritance of his power..." _

-Excerpt from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Balthier absently stroked the edge of the damaged wing as the _White Rose_'s resident mechanic moogle, Mab, fluttered around it tsking to herself and occasionally scribbling on a tiny notepad in her hands. Eventually, she landed next to his fingers, waving the notepad at Balthier. Even with perfect vision he could not decipher the scrawl. He kept what he hoped was a polite smile on his face.

Mab muttered to herself, unbuckled the spanner slung sword-like at her little hips, stuck the pen behind her ear, and began to wave both spanner and notepad to emphasize her words. "Good hit, mm, missed the fuselage, damaged the navigation fins. Can be fixed out of workshop mm, but better to have it repaired in an aerodrome. Draketongue Aerodrome, I have a cousin there, mm, you won't even see the difference."

She scribbled an extremely tiny sigil on a page of the notepad, tore it out, and handed it with a flourish to Balthier. Mab bowed when he accepted with appropriate solemnity, the puff over her head bobbing.

Thorn was seated on a stack of crates next to the _Strahl_, marked as containing oranges and postmarked colorfully with the Rozarrian phoenix stamp of origin, in a very unladylike sprawl, one thigh hugged to her and the other hanging out over space, her braid in her lap and her broadsword behind her. Her animosity against him seemed to have mellowed into a wary sort of camaraderie. "Close thing there, if ye moved any more to the left I could have hit the glossair rings."

"Ah, well, the accuracy of your _Rose_ is well known," Balthier grinned, moving away to climb onto the crates as the moogle and Hume technicians of the Draketongue cruiser began to apply temporary repairs under Mab's and Fran's supervision. The _White Rose_'s mechanic had declared partial responsibility for the damage and had rather unnecessarily and despite Balthier's protestations announced her intention to provide any help possible.

"Now's the hard part for ye, eh?" Thorn said, with a jerk of her head to the group of people waiting on the docking platform for the arrival of the prize, with Draketongue and a few other pirate lords at the forefront.

"You could say that," Balthier found he was not really looking forward to talking to Basch, as much as he knew he had to. Just to give Draketongue some impression that he was doing the other part of his 'task'. Balthier fully intended to crack the password by himself: the thought of torture disgusted him. "Why aren't you over there with the illustrious company?"

Thorn snorted. "Neither is Varney." She pointed to the side. The scarred, half-Archadian pirate lord Varney Silverunner was seated on the nose of his docked personal airship _Doin' a Runner_, and he waved at them playfully when he saw them looking in his direction. Silverunner was technically not a sky pirate, as he ruled the Pharos Draehra, really a small pirate port in the middle of the ocean. 

"Why the hell is he here anyway?" Varney possessed an uncommon cheer that Balthier occasionally found trying, but the Draehra had the best lager on this side of Ivalice, and a few of his sea pirate friends had over the past few years fled Balfonheim for Draehra's relative peace. "Wait, no need to answer that." 

Balthier spied the burly figure of Nae Marlinspike in the congregation. Nae was a freebooter and a sky pirate who had a tendency to steal from pirates: his argument was that whatever was worth stealing _stayed_ worth stealing. An attempt to steal from the Draehra Manse had mysteriously resulted in Nae making fast friends with Varney.

Varney was probably here to make sure Nae didn't develop the sudden and potentially lethal itch to steal from Draketongue. From the soft chuckle Thorn made by his side, he supposed she had come to the same conclusion. She opened her mouth to comment, then paused as a commotion and the slow hum of the massive hangar doors sliding open heralded the arrival of the boarders.

--

Basch was leaning more in the arms of the guards restraining him than walking, his body still twitching involuntarily at times from the aftershock of the stasis charge that had immobilized the airship. He hoped devoutly that the _Valefor_ had regained power in time to make a landing safely. The memory of what had transpired was sharp and bitter.

"Draketongue's orders," the leader of the armed squad who had forced open the gangway of the trapped airship barked. "No killing. No other prisoners. Take the Judge and everything in the hold. You know the size of the crate. Search the ship."

_They had not bothered to hide the prototype, and it was found quickly enough in the hold. Basch had kept his expression stoic, with his arms shackled before him and under guard at the mouth of the gangway, as the crate was wheeled past him._

_Once he and the crate were in the boarders' ship, on their way to one of the cruisers, he heard voices discussing the _Valefor_ over the feed. _

_"Want me to loose the net in stages, Draketongue? The airship would recover power in stages, enough to hover. We'll be safe gone by then, and if it chases, ye can shoot it down."_

_"No. Just let it go all at once."_

_"What? But ye said, ye did'na want the _Valefor_ harmed..."_

_"And it isn't," the second voice was lazy, flat as a reptile's. "Nor is anybody harmed. But we now have no obligation to their well-being, and I do not want any small chance that they may recover enough to prove a nuisance. This way, they will have to make a forced landing and do repairs." _

_"Aye."_

He guessed who Draketongue was immediately, even as he struggled to concentrate. The small man in a black robe walked up to him with the confident stride of power, and bowed slightly, without the least trace of mockery in his eyes. Sarcasm was likely a petty indulgence to Draketongue. "Judge-Magister Gabranth. You know well enough why you are here, and you know most of us behind me than introductions are unnecessary. I doubt you have recovered as yet the use of your tongue...?"

Basch stared at him calmly, refusing to speak.

"I thought so," Draketongue mused, shaking his head when one of the guard arched an eyebrow at his master and raised a fist, as if to strike. "Here is the arrangement, Gabranth, without mincing words. You and the prototype are to be taken back to my Manse, where you will be placed under heavy guard. Therein, a mutual acquaintance of ours, Balthier Bunansa, will attempt to crack the password on that prototype, or persuade you to give it up. I do, however, have a limited patience, so please enjoy my hospitality while you are able."

There. No verbalized threat was truly required. The last few lines were said without inflexion, but Basch felt a chill settle at the base of his spine. Draketongue bowed again, turned about, and swept back up the platform, through the crowd and to an exit Basch could not see.

He turned his head, and spied Balthier and Thorn watching him from a stack of boxes. Balthier's features were expressionless, though at the _Strahl_, Fran afforded him a brief, faint nod of recognition that made him feel slightly if irrationally better. Basch had failed his mission, and all because of misplaced honor and sentiment. He should have guessed that Balthier, as a pirate, would have worked against him simply out of a sense of self-preservation, and he was too naïve. Creatures, when cornered, would use any method necessary to stay free.

Still, he found he was angry at Balthier, angry at the deception and the play on their friendship that they had forged through shared hardships in regaining his Queen's title. He looked away pointedly, as he was dragged away to the cells.

--

His first and only visitor, as opposed to curious onlookers, was later at night. Fran was alone, and looked a little weary. She tossed him an apple through the bars: Basch accepted gratefully. While he had not exactly been fed bread and water, the fresh apple tasted like sunshine. The cell was cool, but he was sweating a little under the heavy armor, to the point that he itched at a point under his right shoulderblade, between skin and padded undershirt. His brother's horned helm was in his lap, and he sat on the single bunk, feet flat on the ground, leaning back against the wall to eat. Fran seemed content to watch, silent, beautiful and still, then she nodded and left. Basch did not call her back.

He managed to sleep fitfully, lulled by the steady hum of the massive engines that he could hear through the walls, the heartbeat of the cruiser that was taking him to Draketongue's fortress. Basch did calculations to distract himself, whenever he fell to consciousness.

Basch supposed there was no real way that the armada could be intercepted in the few hours that they took to reach the Draketongue Purveema. That _Valefor_ would be missed, but Larsa and the others would have no real idea where the pirate fleet was headed. Even if they were observed and followed, there was little chance that Archadia or Dalmasca could muster a force in time to best the fleet before it reached its destination.

The Purveema was currently in drift offshore from Dalmasca, twenty miles or so south of Bhujerba. As such, there would be no need for time-consuming political agreements in order to approach the area. The Draketongue Purveema was heavily fortified, but due to the number of civilians living on it, Larsa would be unlikely to use bombing or strafe attacks. He was also likely to try diplomatic methods first.

All in all, Basch supposed, leaning back against the wall and staring at the apple core discarded at his feet, it would be at least a week or more before he could expect rescue, if at all. Any strike force attempting to penetrate the Purveema would likely fail.

His best bet would be to persuade Balthier to aid him. The pirate loved his own skin above all else: that was evident now. Perhaps he could arrange absolute immunity, or persuade Balthier that he could. Surely the free spirit in Balthier that had driven the sky pirate to throw in his lot with the pirate lords to capture the prototype also rankled under the need to obey their dictates. And as much as Balthier sometimes attempted to hide it under layers of sarcasm, he had a good heart. Surely he also knew that the depredations of the so-called pirate elite had to be curbed.

Too many threads that centered on someone so unpredictable, so young still. Basch let out a long, soft sigh. His worst enemy at this point was probably Balthier's curiosity. He knew the sky pirate would likely attempt to decrypt the machine purely to satisfy said curiosity; and if the son was anything like the father, Basch had no doubt that Balthier had a fair chance of completing the machine, as well. Basch did not want to think about what would ensue, were Draketongue and the others to gain control of the weapon in its complete form. If he had any luck at all, they would then squabble amongst themselves, and devour each other.

--

Balthier arched an eyebrow at Draketongue when he wasn't immediately allowed into the laboratory proper. They stood in the circular observation deck outside a containment facility, which was enclosed in a cylinder of steelglass. Within it were people, wearing lightweight tunics and breeches, gloved to the elbows in fine leather. At the centre, on a low platform, was the prototype weapon.

It likely was less glamorous than anyone had thought, currently in several different pieces stacked neatly together in the same sequence as they had been wrapped. Balthier tilted his head as he looked it over thoughtfully. Certainly he could already divine what the reconstructed prototype should look like, and it was definitely incomplete.

It was also some sort of cannon. In between deciding whether or not to divulge this tidbit, Draketongue spoke first. "It is a cannon, is it not?"

Balthier nodded cautiously, keeping his expression guarded. "It should not be difficult to reassemble it."

"It does not appear to be powered by conventional means."

"It is incomplete," Balthier pointed out dryly.

Draketongue's stare did not need to be withering. "I understand that one of the very first tenets of invention is to find a workable power source."

"And I meant that without looking more closely at the device, it is unlikely that I can divine how or where this power source may be."

Draketongue smiled, humorless, turning reptilian eyes back to the glass. "And I thought you would turn reluctant at the last moment."

"Rest assured I am just as curious as you are," Balthier replied honestly. He had always had a weakness for machines. 

"Unfortunately, due to safety reasons, you would have to undergo the inconvenience of procedure, at least until we confirm that the prototype is by itself totally harmless to would-be tinkerers," Draketongue leant forward on the cold steel bars of the rail. "There is a communications port at the station to your right. Use that to speak to those within the chamber. They will be quick to obey your direction."

"You fear that the device is trapped," Balthier stared hard at the people milling about the steelglass room. Certainly, now that he knew what he was looking for, the tension was obvious, in the stilted way they moved about each other. "Why not use machines?" Draketongue had any number of odd devices that Balthier had observed when escorted deep into the heart of the Manse's laboratory. Many of the corridors had led to closed reinforced steel doors, to Balthier's disappointment and relief. He was curious, but he did not want to see any experimental horrors.

"At least with the technology we have now, human fingers are more precise, and it would take a while to reconstruct any sort of operative machine claw in the steelglass room. "Do not worry," Draketongue added, inflectionless, "All of those within there have families."

Balthier switched his stare to Draketongue, the start of horror within him too deep to mask effectively. 

Draketongue, however, had already turned his glance back to the prototype, disinterested in his own words. "That would make them less likely to resort to ill-conceived ideas of sabotage." 

"Or, if the machine is _rigged_..."

"Then they should also be somewhat more inclined to take especial care to listen to your directions, Balthier." Draketongue inclined his head towards the communications station. "Do report to me afterwards."

--

Basch had resolved to be calm, patient and above all, civil. He was escorted to a set of guest chambers that he supposed belonged to Fran and Balthier, sans his brother's weapons, though he was allowed to keep the armor. There, he was informed flatly by the guards that any attempt at escape would be deeply frowned upon, and was then left to himself.

The opulence of the guest rooms rivaled chambers that Basch had seen in the Solidor Palace. The curtains were heavy, crushed white velvet, framing long steelglass windows that overlooked a sheer drop down to darkening clouds. He stood in a circular lounge room with a frosted glass low table as a centerpiece, its surface etched with the squares of a chessboard: black squares frosted glass, white squares clear. Delicate silver chess pieces lined Black; White was in clear crystal. A gray leather divan bordered the chess table in a perfect 'O'.

A thick black pelt of some unknown, massive animal was cut into a square under the table and divan. Between two of the long windows was a glass shelf which held a few titles of fiction that Basch did not recognize. Above him was a small, plain crystal chandelier, too bright, painting stark shadows under the furniture and Basch's boots. Two sliding doors, silver, were to Basch's left; one to the right; and the single exit, no doubt heavily guarded, was behind him. With the rough white plaster walls, the room looked disturbingly sterile, in tones of white and gray and black.

He pursed his lips, then forced himself to stop. Basch then walked experimentally over to the doors on his left. Neither opened, and he noticed slots for identification cards set discreetly at hand level. The right door opened, however, to show a small, single bed, a rack for his armor, and a small wardrobe where several dress shirts, breeches, nightshirts and underthings were. Two towels were folded on the top shelf of the wardrobe. There was another door, which opened to a washroom that contained a ceramic tub.

Basch turned quickly when he heard the hiss of the exit door opening, and was in time to watch Balthier stroll into the room, looking around himself with an insouciant expression. He arched an eyebrow when he saw Basch. "I have never been quite into themed rooms."

"Perhaps Draketongue wishes to make some point," Small talk came all too easily to Basch, with Balthier's playful manner. He could tell that the other man was tense, however, in the way he was picking constantly at a sleeve. Balthier's expression was also all too set, his smile a little too feigned. He had been right, then: the current arrangements under the pirate lords definitely were uncomfortable for Balthier.

"About his taste, or his idea of ours?" There was no heart in the jibe, however, and Balthier was already turning away, to slip a card through the sensor on one of the doors. There was a soft beep, and a hiss as the door slid open. Balthier's room was twice Basch's in size, and appeared more to be a study than a bedroom. There was a small bed in a corner, next to a desk; the rest of the room was lined wall to wall, ceiling to ground with shelves of thickly stacked books. Balthier whistled, walking to the closest shelf and randomly selecting a title.

"Technomancy," he muttered, then let out a long breath, as though coming to a decision. "You probably don't wish to talk to me right now, and I can understand that. I'm not going to give you any excuses."

Basch frowned, as the pirate continued talking. His speech was clipped, as though distracted, far from the lazy drawl that Basch remembered. 

"I won't bother asking you to help me, and you shouldn't bother asking me to help you. As far as I'm concerned we're both at odds on this, and my - and Fran's - survival takes precedence over yours. Understand?"

Basch nodded slowly as he sat on a couch, ignoring how the grease stains from his armor discolored the soft fabric, plated boots flatfooted on the ground, elbows on his thighs and fingers interlocked. "Self-preservation is the beginning and the end of why you've chosen sides, Balthier?"

A ghost of a smirk chased thinned lips. "That and curiosity, Basch. Pure curiosity."

That sparked a brief flash of anger within him that the betrayal had not. Basch forced himself to calm down. Losing his temper would likely serve no purpose other than to amuse pirates. Balthier, however, cocked his head, folded his arms, widened his smirk, and turned to face the steelglass window. 

"Curiosity can be destructive." Basch commented mildly.

"It's a sentiment I'm well-experienced at satisfying in a reasonably safe manner," Balthier retorted, without looking back at him. "In any case, what I wished to ask of you was, in consideration for saving you the trouble of having history repeat itself, what with your penchant for getting strung out in dungeons and cages, that you stay in this set of rooms quietly and peaceably. You can try to escape or whatever if you'll like, just try to do it in a way that doesn't give Fran or myself any trouble."

Balthier's sentences were too long, nearly breathless, and his fingers continued to pick endlessly at his right sleeve. The pirate was nervous, where Basch had never seen him so before; not even entombed in a highly probable death within a collapsing airship.

And there was likely no real way he could get Balthier to say anything, at least, not this openly. Basch stared down at his patterned greaves, for a long moment, then pushed himself off the couch to his feet. There was no need for polite noise in full plate, when approaching someone from the back, but Balthier seemed to flinch when he stopped well-within the pirate's personal space and murmured an inch behind his ear.

"Is there something I should know, Balthier?"

-tbc-


	5. Debts and Solutions

[A/N: Chapters will be written in a clandestine fashion. As such, they're going to be pretty much disjointed until I stop working... XD

Rules of Engagement  
5  
Debts and Solutions

"_Given that the memoirs of both personages differ, sometimes drastically, on the matter, a 'true' account of exactly how the partnership between Varney Silverunner and Nae Marlinspike began would have to be constructed from history and popular opinion. It would appear that Nae sought to steal the blueprints for the Draehra Manse's Scopic Cannon, locked deep within the Manse's vault. The Scopic Cannon is better known as the original prototype for today's standard land-to-air artillery cannon: the Lance-58. During its time, the Scopic was the foremost land-to-air defense cannon, and its make was a closely guarded secret. Nae was apprehended, but for unknown reasons was then set free. Varney's memoirs describe how he found the freebooter 'amusing' yet 'pitiful'; Nae's memoirs detail how he had been quick to charm his way out of the situation with his wit. The pair soon became fast friends, and then lovers. They played an intrinsic role in the events leading up to the what is luridly known as the 'Seven Days of Night,' one that ended in tragedy..."_

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Balthier took in a deep breath and hoped to hell that Basch would mistake the high spots of color on his cheeks as stress. He had been too distracted thinking of counterweights and hostages to properly register even that clanking monstrosity of a Judge-Magister's armor walking up from behind him, and the warm breath against the shell of his ear tickled in a way that made him shiver.

All in all, the pirate thought bitterly, it was really unfortunate that, as a young, healthy male, his body felt certain avenues of distraction were necessary to a balanced handling of stress. It was easy in cities, but he would have to be bloody stupid to seek that on the Draketongue Purveema.

Besides, as much as Basch was _definitely_ attractive, the factor that had kept Balthier's hands to himself years ago held the same sway now. Balthier liked his playmates uncomplicated, and in enterprises regarding his heart, far preferred free trade to binding agreements. 

"Balthier?" Basch prompted gently, then, and Balthier swallowed the instinctive Rozarrian curse that welled in his throat. Did the man really have to stand _this _close?

Balthier concentrated on the odour of metal and oil to clear his thoughts. There actually was no real harm in feeding Basch a little information to keep him friendly. Despite the man's seemingly placid nature outside of battle, Balthier was sure that any person of Basch's caliber with weaponry could create excessively thorny problems if they so wished.

"I am just a little... stressed," he admitted quietly. "I was engaged by Draketongue to look at the machine. He rather forgot to inform me that this would be via proxy, with men and women handling the machine through my commands. Within a steelglass cage. Especially chosen because they have families."

"In case of sabotage," Basch's tone hardened.

"Or in case of traps." Balthier curled and uncurled his fingers, digging his fingernails into his palms. Well, asking didn't hurt. "Basch-"

"No traps," Basch said. "At least, not that I am aware of."

That wasn't particularly reassuring. But Balthier supposed that what with several hours of careful poking about the machine with no obvious consequences it was likely safe enough.

"Something off my mind, I suppose. Thanks."

"Pursuing self-preservation can go too far," Basch's observation was mild, but Balthier found it abruptly irksome in a way he couldn't define.

"So can final solutions," he replied sharply, turning to brush rudely past the Judge. He needed some air, and the company was turning stifling. Balthier paused just before he stepped out of their allocated rooms, his tone biting. "Extermination's overmuch of a sledgehammer solution for civilized societies, isn't it?"

--

"Very diplomatic, Basch," Basch muttered under his breath, as he stared at the faint gleam of his reflection from the mild refraction of light through the steelglass window. He'd just managed to aggravate one of his only two allies.

To keep his mind off the confinement, he walked into his allocated room, the door hissing open. Feeling there was really no point to keep on his brother's armor, he put his hands through the memorized routine of unbuckling straps.

Balthier was nervous and stressed, and Basch thought it would be a safe bet that Draketongue's gambits regarding research of the device were only a part of it. He would definitely expect it of a man like Draketongue to have several forms of insurance, after all, and none of them comfortable.

He knew wryly that as much as Balthier's sense of self-preservation drove him to choose sides, so had his own sense of duty. He had really been deluding himself: here, there could be no space for negotiation. Neither side could afford to give. Basch would not look favorably on offers of aid with escape with the device in the pirates' hands.

With Balthier already in such a state, the pirate was unlikely to entertain any compromise that could lead to a risk of harm to himself or to his Viera partner.  
Basch knew his stand was right. Then why had Balthier's words hurt? He knew the pirates had to be stopped. Why did it seem so wrong to know he was up against his one-time companion? Misplaced sentiment: that had to be so. Even if he had never spoken very much at all to Balthier, the man had been an integral part of his escape from Nalbina; had watched his back with words and gun, had healed him, amused him, _cared_, however little.

After Nalbina, that had been worth so much.

Not for the first time in his life, but at least in a more comfortable cage than the last, Basch felt absolutely helpless and out of options.

--

Say what one wanted about the man, but Draketongue kept an exceedingly well-stocked bar, which didn't seem at all dented from the strain of hosting several pirate lords along with their entourages. The dining hall had been converted into some sort of makeshift bar, though with the main table unoccupied and many of the pirates segregated into their own groups. Fran's white ears were obvious above the crowd, which for all the noise were remarkably well behaved, and Balthier wound his way through to the alcove where she sat.

Fran glanced up and inclined her head when he approached, shifting a little to her right to make room. She held a small crystal glass of red wine in one clawed hand, but Balthier knew better than to wonder at levels of sobriety. Viera did not seem capable of getting drunk, as such: at least not on beverages made by Humes.

Her companions, however, gave him pause. Opposite Fran were Varney and Nae, with several empty tankards of what had been thick malt whisky before them, apparently already searching the event horizon of drunkenness. Varney was comfortably ensconced in Nae's lap, and both were rather unashamedly groping each other in between loud and enthusiastic kisses.

Balthier stared at Fran, who arched one perfect eyebrow. _What?_

Feeling that the world _really _should make an effort to make more sense when he was in a poor mood, Balthier sat down next to his partner and ordered whisky. Why was Fran sitting next to these two pirates? Why was Basch still so bloody difficult? How in all the hells had he managed to tangle himself in Draketongue's problem?

The reason to the first question presented itself after his whisky arrived.

Varney didn't look at him, but spoke chattily in High Archadian, a soft-spoken tonal language that was, of late, only known to those born to Archadian gentry forced to study the Classics. Balthier was fluent in it, and so was Fran, not that he was particularly sure why, in her case. He had to strain his ears to pick out the words over the background noise of pirates acquainting themselves liberally with hard liquor.

"Fran said you'll be wanting a few solutions, Balthier. By the way, don't make it look too obvious that we're discussing business."

"I may be looking for solutions, at that," Balthier replied in the same dialect, warily. Fran was an excellent judge of character, but the stakes were high. Nae seemed content to listen, to all appearances busily attacking Varney's bared collarbone, under his partner's increasing dishabille. Both wore rumpled shirts open to the navel, and neither appeared armed.

"And as you know my little home sits next to the boundaries of a certain wolf."

"You're negotiating with the wolf."

"Aye, it's seeking the return of one of its cubs. More so than its toy, at the moment. I could do that, with a little bit of help."

"Now?"

"No. I'll tell you when. That is, if you agree to help."

Balthier shot his partner a sidelong glance. Fran rolled one shoulder in a shrug, leaving the choice to him. The sky pirate took another gulp of whisky. Helping Basch could prove potentially fatal to his – and Fran's – safety. But the betrayal had rankled uncomfortably in what was left of his conscience since he had committed it, and he knew he owed Basch. Balthier pretended to concentrate on his whisky, as though the very public display of affection made him uncomfortable. 

"I owe him one. What do you want of us?"

"Your silence, for now. Maybe a little more later. We haven't really scoped it out."

"Can you take Fran?" Balthier asked then, just as his partner looked sharply at him.

"Balthier." Fran's voice was reproachful.

"Sure," Varney said cheerfully, in between gasps that sounded rather too loud to be totally caused by his partner's continued assault on his neck. "But if the lady doesn't wish to go, it's not like we can make her."

"I'll speak to her," Balthier said, just as Fran made a loud sniff that told him exactly what she thought of that idea.

"What we need to know, however, is a little more about your intentions," Nae said then, his Rozarrian accent quite pronounced in his attempt at High Archadian, as an odd burr. "We know we can't assure you that we aren't agents."

"I've hidden nothing, not even from Drake," Balthier shrugged. Hope was good enough for him at the moment, without very many options at all, and besides, Draketongue still needed him, if this was truly some sort of test or trap. "I'll crack the code and figure out how the machine works. I'll also rather not do it with distractions underfoot, and as I've said, I owe him. You might have a problem convincing the bird to move, though. Or keeping it from Drake."

"We think he probably suspects," Varney said, with a slightly breathless, playful laugh. It did not quite comfort Balthier to realize that the man's irreverence to life in general seemed to extend equally even to this gambit.

"What you're doing now isn't particularly secure, either."

"But he can't kill us. Not here, anyway, not while he still needs a piratical ceasefire to figure out how that toy works. Doesn't want the killing to start so soon."

Infighting. The killing. Yes, Balthier thought, as he took a stiff gulp of the liquor. It would start, and Draketongue likely knew it. The tension was palpable here, even with the liquor and the apparent camaraderie of a piratical victory over the Archadian and Rozarrian empires. There was no rational reason why so many of the pirate lords were so boisterously overstaying their welcome.

The only question was _when_.

--

Though he _was_ technically being held captive by pirates, Basch found that the greatest danger to himself at the moment seemed to be more a possibility of dying of boredom. The shelves were well stocked with books, even outside technomancy, but he couldn't quite concentrate on intellectual abstractions with the crisis at hand.  
Fran and Balthier were out of the rooms almost all the time, and the guards posted at the doorway firmly prevented him from leaving. He tried planning scenarios and solutions for the first few days, before wryly acknowledging that even if he was able to overpower the guards, he had no idea how he was going to escape a Purveema without a ship.

Fran disdained conversation whenever he did see her, and something about her carriage of inhuman dignity prevented him from being so rude as to press her. He'd tried, once: she merely shrugged, and murmured a Vieran adage about patience. As to Balthier...

After the first week Balthier stopped even bothering to pretend to be his usual confident, cocky self. He spoke little, and seemed to have forgotten about the harsh words he had exchanged last with Basch. His handsome features were usually drawn, always weary, and his mumbled acknowledgments to greetings were distracted. But there was an intense focus to him that Basch didn't recognize from the 'Balthier' that he was used to: it showed in his eyes, obsessive, familiar.

It took him half a week to place it, then it struck him, as he was lounging on the couch reading Hylchen's _War Proviso_. Balthier was seated opposite him, clad only in soft breeches and his shirt, a pile of technomancy books at his feet. "Balthier."

"Mm?" Balthier, recently, had taken to spending more time doing quiet research in their rooms than in the labs. Basch took this to mean that the pirate had finally drawn a blank about the device, and for that he was deeply grateful to any observing deities.

"You're beginning to remind me of your father."

"Now that's not very nice." Balthier sounded distracted rather than reproachful, turning a page. "Given how the old man turned out."

"I meant that obsessive cast to his features. You're developing it."

"Am I now?" Balthier seemed to wrench his gaze from the books, but his grin was wry. "Well. It's new technology, and for the life of me I cannot quite seem to grasp how it works. I haven't had a puzzle like this for a decade."

"You're enjoying it." Basch concluded quietly. He wished he could feel appalled, that Balthier was this intrigued by a weapon.

"Of course. I enjoy stimulation." Something about Basch's dubious feeling must have showed, because Balthier snickered, and added, "All forms. Mental stimulation I find difficult to locate to my satisfaction, usually. Physical, however, why, 'tis always merely a question of finding the right partner."

To Basch's surprise, he found himself subject to a brazen once over by a strikingly good-looking man whom he had only thought of as a friend. Shocked, he didn't answer, then Balthier snickered again. Joke. _It was a joke_. And he really should be feeling relieved, but Basch's dutiful response, a laugh, sounded a little forced.

Unnecessary complications. And hell, he knew the pirate's sense of humor sometimes was a little esoteric: this couldn't be anything but amusement at his expense. Balthier was wound up tight, close to breaking – that much he could tell, and he would concede the younger man a little bit of release. Basch tried to focus, failed partially, and asked an inane question. "Trying to figure out what it is, or the code?"

To Balthier's credit, the pirate didn't respond with jibes, perhaps recognizing the concession. "Mm. Both. I'm close to the latter, but not quite there with the former. Though I do think it likely has something to do with electricity."

Basch was grateful that he hadn't been privy to this information, at least. Lying to someone like Balthier would have been profoundly difficult. "I would not know."

"Aye, I think you don't," Balthier said agreeably enough, turning his eyes back down to the book. "What frustrates me is I think 'tis likely something surpassingly simple. The concept, that is." 

"I cannot say I wish you luck."

"I don't need luck," Balthier said, and briefly, Basch was treated to a cocky flash of the pirate's usual self, that faded quickly into introspection over the tome in his lap. He tried to stifle the nagging, vague sense of loss in studying classical Rozarrian expansionary tactics.

--

Balthier inwardly cursed his tongue for running away with itself. He hadn't meant to talk very much at all to Basch. Assuming that Varney was able to spring the bird, it wouldn't suit his purposes at all for Basch to have any inkling of what the machine could do. Although he was sure that the information was there, the machine was incomplete, and he didn't want to give his enemies any hint whatsoever.

His enemies.

It was a difficult concept to hold on to; that the serious girl-child that he had journeyed with years ago was now his enemy; as was Larsa. And Basch. And on the other side, himself, Fran, Vaan and Penelo. Friends. And, damn it all, he rather enjoyed Basch's company. The man didn't speak very much at all save when he had something useful to say, he wasn't stupid, and he was still a curious tangle of conflicts. A dead man living another man's life.

It _was_ rather unfortunate.

And the flirting hadn't been all play. Basch, dressed in shirts and breeches that actually fit, that showed off broad shoulders and muscular limbs, was stunning, even more so that the man seemed absolutely unaware of his personal allure. And the attention was proving distracting.

Of course, he knew the other man had no choice: Fran wasn't much for talk, even with himself, and Balthier was the only person Basch had been able to talk to since he had been captured. Before, with his Queen to mother and two children to watch over, Basch hardly exchanged words with Balthier save where the topic concerned their immediate problems of outlawry.

Balthier wondered idly if it was worth satisfying his personal curiosities about Basch by seducing the man, complications aside. It would be a fine sort of insurance, were he to run afoul of Dalmasca or Archades after this. But such things tended to have a way of destroying friendships, when one party placed more credence on the act than another, and he was sure that in Basch's case, things could complicate far too quickly. The man was a soldier, but he was more a knight than a soldier.

The last question was whether or not Basch was interested. Certainly he was at the very least on the fence: a straight man would have laughed immediately or recoiled at his playful comment. Basch had frozen, his answering laugh taking a moment too long. Friendships, distractions, insurance. Balthier wished that he had space to think.

What made things more complicated was that Fran had flat-out refused to leave with Varney whenever they decided to break Basch out of the Manse. Balthier wished that he was selfless enough not to feel some degree of relief, but he needed Fran in a way beyond human ability to properly describe. Viera had a name for it in their language, but Fran had termed them a 'Jyirn-pair,' and Balthier felt that further details were unnecessary.

At least her movements seemed less restricted than Balthier's, but he knew that the entire Manse made her feel far more uncomfortable than she actually let on. There was too much evil.

His mind drifting, Balthier didn't realize he was staring into space until Basch chuckled. He turned his head to see the other man's faint, warm smile. No lingering animosity there whatsoever, and it had only been less than two weeks, with no attempts at apology on his part. It truly wasn't in Basch's nature to hold grudges. "You've been staring at the carpet for a quarter of an hour."

"That means _you've_ been looking at _me_ for a quarter of an hour," Balthier shot back, with a smirk, and was oddly pleased to see Basch's ears tint pink in embarrassment.

"I just happened to notice, 'tis all," Basch said with telling defensiveness, dropping his eyes quickly back to his book and sinking deeper into his chair. Balthier's smirk widened, for a moment, before he pushed his mind back to the abstraction of security algorithms.

--

Balthier cracked the code on the third day of the second week, and watched in satisfaction as the machine hummed into life, plugged into a glossair-powered generator. Reassembled, it rather looked like a squat, gray, ugly cannon with two sink fans at its flanks and a torso full of circuitry, about four metres from nose to end and one metre up at the torso. The cannon could be connected to any computer, where the software downloaded remotely; after which the user would be prompted for a password. Hacking _that_ had taken a perusal of all standard security algorithm boards to no avail: the password turned out to be something as simple as Larsa's birthday. Anti-climatic.

He turned one of the pale blue, metallic shells over and over in his hands, feeling the faint static. The material was an alloy of edamtite that he had never seen before, Nature's perfect conductor. It could be fired from the cannon, but to little purpose: the alloy wasn't hard enough to penetrate a hull, and the shells fit into his palm. They wouldn't do much damage to a ship, not that he could see.

Engrossed, Balthier flinched when Draketongue abruptly spoke, behind him. He hadn't seen the man walk into the glass cage from the outer walkway. "Did I not advise you to work by proxy, Balthier?"

His assistants were all but cowering fearfully from behind the benches and desks of blueprints and materials, but Balthier merely turned, his cocky smile fixed on his face. "I felt it quite obvious that the machine was not trapped, Draketongue. Besides, as you can see, my physical presence must have been of some aid." The sky pirate gently patted the humming slope of the right fan's shell in satisfaction. "There's a storage drive – actually a miniature computer – within the cannon as well, with research journals. I doubt it is meant to be there in a completed, working model, but I would have to peruse the plans in greater detail."

"It seems my confidence in you has not been misplaced," Draketongue said in his emotionless voice, looking over the cannon thoughtfully, then at the shell in Balthier's hands. "But you still have no idea what the cannon can do."

"Nor do your minions," Balthier retorted, his ego a little stung.

"I did not expect them to be able to deduce much of this at all, or I would not have asked for your aid," Draketongue replied evenly, walking a slow circle around the cannon. "Remarkable. How can a cannon that would be hard pressed to destroy a hoverbike be the end of our kind?"

Balthier voiced the reservations he had kept since this morning's euphoria over cracking the code had worn off. "It could be that it would _never_ work. After all, it's merely a dream represented in a prototype."

"One would be well-advised to ware another man's dream, where the man is as powerful a personage as the Grand-Duke of Rozarria," Draketongue stepped carefully over a coil of wire, walking unhurriedly towards the single exit of the glass room. "No progress with the Judge?"

"He knows nothing about the cannon."

"Then perhaps he has ceased to be useful," Draketongue's inflexion did not change, but his words chilled Balthier's spine.

"You wish to make enemy of Archadia?" Balthier inquired, hoping Draketongue wouldn't read too much into his objection.

"We cannot afford to make enemy of Archadia, not yet. His presence buys us time, but also buys Archadia an excuse for war. Soon Archadia might decide that its toy is worth more than its pet, and use the reason. In that ultimate scenario allowing the Judge to live seems a waste of resources." Draketongue turned maroon eyes back to Balthier just as he strode out of the glass room. "I will, of course, have to confer with my colleagues."

"Kill him and my willingness to help you wholeheartedly palls somewhat," Balthier warned, before he could stop himself. The impulse, in response to Draketongue's detachment, had been briefly overwhelming. 

"And you were so quick to betray him, before."

"To get this." Balthier rapped the knuckles of his left hand over the rim of the cannon's snout. "Now I owe him."

"You've already chosen sides, Balthier," Draketongue said mildly. "I am as yet in no hurry to decide Judge Gabranth's fate. Ware that you may tangle yourself too much within it to the detriment of your health."

-tbc-


	6. Facets in a Reflection

[A/N: hm I haven't managed to find any info on how glossair stuff work... so I'm making it up.

Rules of Engagement

6

Facets in a reflection

"There has always been a traditional rivalry between sky and sea pirates, which has been pervasive in the literature around corsairs within most countries. Sea travel facilitates the transport of many profitable goods – spice, livestock, wheat, rice, and heavy machinery. Only the more urgently needed goods tend to be transported via airship. The world's trading centers are naturally sea and air ports, however, and have been the site of turf skirmishes on occasion. Sea pirates have been known to respond particularly unfavorably toward sky pirate raids on 'their' territories, even to the point of ignoring the mark and concentrating instead on the fighting off of intruders…"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, Archadian University Press

On the second day of the third week Basch found himself frog-marched peremptorily through the Manse's well-guarded maze of narrow defensive corridors to a large square chamber lined with red velvet couches. A pretty Old Kingdom girl, likely no older than Balthier, smiled warmly at him from the polished, heavy desk set near the back of the room, and indicated with a wave that he take a seat. The four armored guards settled themselves at attention in each corner of the room.

"Lord Draketongue will see you shortly, sir."

A reception, a waiting room. Basch hesitated, then sat at the corner with a low glass table piled neatly with various magazines. The other corner had a small bar, with a coffee machine and a water dispenser. Behind the receptionist was a whitewood door with a drake in flight sketched ornately in gold; to her left and right two discreet ones paneled over with the same warm oak as the walls. The walls were decorated with framed oil paintings of various birds native to Dalmasca, and an antique brass ship's clock, over the bar.

The office setup of the chamber didn't fool Basch for an instant. This was a killing room. The chambers set to both sides, to the left and right of the receptionist, likely had only one entrance, heavily barred, and arrow slots cunningly hidden into the paneling. Within his office, Draketongue would be able to withstand all but the most concerted and suicidal assault.

He was in the midst of reading an odd tourist magazine about Rozarria when a soft beep sounded from the desk. Basch looked up to see the receptionist hold a receiver to her air, pausing in her typing. "Yes, sir. He's in the waiting room. Oh no, sir, my apologies. I'll show him in."

The girl looked somewhat abashed as she hung up, getting to her feet. "I've forgotten to offer you refreshments, sir. Would you like something to drink?"

Basch studied her thoughtfully. There was no fear at all within her that he could see at presumably being told off by Draketongue, only a girlish embarrassment at the lapse. Strange. "No, thank you."

"All right then. This way, please." She walked up to the door and pressed her palm to the carved drake's talon.

It opened to show a spacious office, the right wall lined with shelves and cabinets stacked with thick black files. The floor was carpeted a thick cream hue, like the reception. Against the left wall was a fish tank lit in soft blue, with colorful coral and white sand. A large Eastern eel, its grayish, leather-like skin patterned at its tail with bright blue specks, turned one malevolent eye to regard him, jaws parting to show rows of sharp teeth, before continuing to circle its tank in a continuous infinity eight.

"A gift from the old kingdom," Draketongue said in his cool voice, turning Basch's attention to the large desk at the end of the chambers.

It too was stacked full of books and ledgers, even part of the computer panel. Behind them, Draketongue appeared smaller than he actually was. He got to his feet with boneless grace, against a steelglass window that looked out towards the central business district of the Purveema.

Draketongue turned to the receptionist, his voice faintly reproachful. "Feng-yin."

"He didn't want anything to drink, sir," Feng-yin replied pertly. There was nothing of subservience in her voice, despite the honorifics, and still no fear.

"And...?"

Feng-yin frowned, confused, then grinned. "I'll get coffee. Sir."

"Good girl," Draketongue murmured, as she left. The guards arranged themselves again at all corners. "Please forgive my niece, Judge Gabranth. She has been working with me for half a year on request by her family, and still has much to remember."

"Niece?" Basch inquired, intrigued despite himself.

"Not by blood," Draketongue settled back in his chair and indicated that Basch take a seat in one of the armchairs before it. "A long time ago I smuggled myself aboard a long-haul vessel to another continent, much by accident. The experience was... educational. I returned two decades afterwards with wealth, power, and several important friendships, not to the least a brother-bond with the Dragonlord Yu-Zhang, of the White Dragon Clan, one of the powerful noble houses of the Old Kingdom that claim kinship with the God-Emperor."

Basch knew then that he was marked for death. Draketongue was too free with personal details for a man who was to be let free. "Your niece is a long way from home."

"Aye, and by her request. Her family was quite wroth with her choice, but she is the second Heir-Apparent to the White Dragon seat, and she can be quite persistent when she wishes to be. The Old Kingdom holds little truck with advanced technology as opposed to astromancy, and she wished to do some learning in the Galtean Peninsula. Still, as a personal request from her father I have kept her close."

"I cannot imagine your Manse as a safe place for a young woman."

"Then you still have a poor understanding of how dangerous it can be to have noble blood, despite your years of service," Draketongue shrugged. "The Manse is no safer than the White Dragon holdings, and besides, she brought with her a personal guard."

"In the killing chambers."

"No, right beside her," Draketongue did not appear surprised in the least that Basch had guessed at the nature of the reception. "The Ghostkin guard. You'll not see them, or feel them, until she's threatened. Ah, Feng-yin. Thank you."

Feng-yin smiled at Basch as she arranged a tray of silverware and biscuits on the tiny amount of available space on Draketongue's desk, pouted, then proceeded to move files off the desk onto an armchair. "There's coffee in the large pot and milk in the smaller one."

"Milk goes into jugs," Draketongue said mildly.

Zheng-yin paused, then shrugged and continued to stack files. When enough space was cleared, she poured both of them a cup of coffee, speaking dryly as she did so, "Of course, if sir had picked up, amongst other good habits from the Old Kingdom, habits of our black teas..."

"She thinks coffee uncivilised," Draketongue observed, as Zheng-yin nodded, bowed to the both of them, and left the room.

The coffee was terrible. Basch put his cup back on the tray, but Draketongue sipped it as though he didn't notice. "Why did you call me here?"

"Business, Gabranth," Draketongue said, with another sip of coffee. "It has come to my attention that your adopted country has seeded potential traitors in my Manse, with the objective of freeing you, and the cannon."

"And you thought they would try otherwise?" Basch kept his voice neutral, devoid of the sudden, irrational hope he felt. Gods, he hoped he didn't know any of his would-be rescuers personally. Any retrieval mission into the Manse was likely lethal.

"I expected it, once negotiations fell through," Draketongue agreed. "But I was quite surprised, Gabranth, to find that amongst those who would wish you back in the arms of Archadia are those with whom you currently share living arrangements."

"That's not likely," Basch frowned. Balthier would...? Ah, but the man was unreadable, and he was young. "Balthier had put it to me inescapably that my welfare came behind his – and Fran's."

"And are you so sure that both would be at cross purposes, in his opinion?" Draketongue pointed out smoothly.

"And he represented to you that-"

"I have only suspicions at the moment. But Balthier has affirmed that your death may cause him to be rather less helpful than he is now." Draketongue drained the coffee and placed the silver cup back on the tray. "That is the main reason why you are still alive."

"And why tell me this?"

"Because your escape back to Archadia, Gabranth, will also make me rather less inclined to keep Balthier and his lovely partner alive on completion of the cannon. Affect my sense of grateful generosity, if you would like."

Basch had expected words of such nature, but he still felt a cold twist in his belly. "I see."

"I am glad you understand." Draketongue's smile was thin, and as gentle as a blade's edge. "Escort Judge Gabranth back to his chambers."

--

Balthier was a little surprised to see Basch seated at the white couches in the lounge area, apparently waiting for him. Ever since he had taken to staying late at the laboratory, sometimes overnight, he and Basch barely exchanged any words at all. Balthier knew it was partly to avoid having any unnecessary contact with the bird rather than actual obsession with the machine.

He would be lying to himself, however, if he didn't admit that it was also because of a growing attraction to the older man, despite circumstances, despite rationality. It was the close quarters, the forced conversations. Basch was a singularly attractive man, a pleasant companion, and he was _interesting_. Balthier did not say the last lightly of any person.

Now, he put on a smirk and assumed a casual drawl, hoping to annoy Basch into going away. "Oh _honey_, you really shouldn't have waited up."

Basch didn't even blink. "Balthier, this is serious. I have to talk to you."

"But you are," Balthier pointed out, though he supposed that he could guess where this was going. Fran had informed him, during lunch, that Basch had been briefly taken from their rooms. Since the man had returned alive, no doubt he had just survived the dubious honor of an audience with Draketongue.

"Draketongue feels that you're involved in some sort of plot to free me."

"If I am that's news to me," Balthier said dryly, wary of listeners, though Fran had pronounced their chambers free of bugs and the walls proof enough. An oddity of Draketongue, perhaps, or it may well be that the man had some further sort of technology that could elude a Viera's observations.

"Be as that may," Basch replied quietly, "Draketongue has informed me that were I to escape, you and Fran's lives would be forfeit. After you help him construct the machine."

"Anything more obvious that you care to share?" Balthier inquired. The news was hardly news: it was easily deduced by anyone with any measure of exposure to Draketongue and his methodologies. The man liked to counterweight people with people.

"Balthier." And there, the edge of irritation, creeping into Basch's voice.

"He said that for your benefit, not mine," Balthier smiled then, thinly. "I will put it this way, Basch. Even if you were not in the picture, there is a thirty-per-cent possibility that neither Fran nor myself would survive completion of the cannon."

"Then? Why stay? Why complete it?" Basch asked, startled.

"Curiosity," Balthier offered, with a lazy smile, settling in the chair next to Basch and crossing his legs.

"As though you would place it before your life, or Fran's."

"There's an eighty-per-cent probability that I can make the both of us inextricable from the production of more cannon," Balthier said then, looking at his fingertips.

"And a ninety-per-cent probability that I can convince him or some other pirate lord to this respect. On the other hand, I think there would be a ninety-eight-per-cent probability that you would die here were I to complete the cannon with you still on the Purveema."

"I don't accept mathematical equations when lives are at stake."

"I'm surprised that you made General, then."

"Why did you tell Draketongue that you'll not help him if I were to die?" Basch persisted.

"I didn't say that. I said I would be less willing to," Balthier countered. To tell the truth, he had no idea himself, no rational reason in any case. It had been sheer, knee-jerk impulse. He blamed the chivalric classical education that he had been victim to in his Archadian noble-born childhood.

"But surely you knew such words would suggest to him that you, well, that you-"

"Care?" Balthier dropped the smile. "You read poorly into people of Draketongue's make, Basch. He knew it all along. There's little other reason for him to have been so agreeable as to quarter you with myself or Fran with no interference whatsoever. He wanted to foster at least a friendship that may have been forgotten in the past few years." _More than friendship, perhaps_.

"But you have Fran, there." Basch looked startled, pretty blue eyes wide.

"In Draketongue's perspective, a little more insurance likely never hurt anyone. Besides, it would have served no profitable purpose to torture you, or have you quartered separately in a cell." Balthier yawned. It had been a long day, inching closer to the cannon's function.

"If you thought otherwise, you've profoundly misunderstood the man. Draketongue is 'evil' only in the sense that he is fundamentally amoral. There will always be method behind his cruelty."

"I thought otherwise until today," Basch admitted. "He has family here."

That was news even to Balthier. The sky pirate sat straighter. "He does?"

"A girl. Old Kingdom, Feng-yin. An adopted niece." Balthier found himself listening to a short reiteration of odd facts that he was sure very few would ever be privy to. Men like Draketongue had legions of enemies.

"He's kept that from general knowledge," Balthier said, at last. "You know why he's told you."

"He doesn't intend me to live."

"Nor I, nor Fran," Balthier corrected. When Basch blinked rapidly, he added, wryly, "The man knew you wouldn't keep this to yourself, Basch."

"Balthier, _Gods_, I am sorry-"

"It'll not be the reason, when the time comes. It's merely a message, this one to me, and Fran." Balthier pursed his lips. "To choose sides irrevocably."

"He wants you to stand with him."

"Doesn't anyone?" Balthier asked playfully. Basch's eyes were hard, his jaw set. The sky pirate sighed. "Of _course _he does. His research team is terrible. Cowed men produce flawed results and don't report their failures. He'll want me to join him, even after the cannon is complete, or doom both Fran and myself. He's merely giving me time to think it over now."

A beautifully elegant, subtle message. Balthier would admire it, were he not already so weary. In it was threat and respect both. Draketongue was not only letting him know about consequences, but also acknowledging Balthier's incisiveness.

Still, there was good information in that, or perhaps bait. The girl. Perhaps he should befriend the girl. He'd seen her before, peering briefly into the lab, usually at Draketongue's heels, and had always assumed her to be a mere exotic secretary.

Or it could be bait. Perhaps Draketongue would merely use her to temper Balthier's opinion of him. Like Fran, Balthier had little use for evil.

"What would you choose?" Basch asked, with a low sigh.

"What would you?"

"If I had a loved one at stake? I do not know." At least Basch was honest. It likely didn't even occur to the man to make a little white lie to try and sway Balthier's mind.

"Fran would rather die." Balthier informed him, knowing that the Viera in question was likely listening in on this, anyway, from her rooms. "Her choice makes mine."

"You can say that so calmly." Basch was startled again. "And I thought your foremost consideration your own survival. I don't understand this."

"Only when you look in absolutes. You assume too many things, Basch. That were you to leave, I would die. That if I was to complete the cannon, and choose with Fran, I would die. I've appeared to have chosen death quite a few times, Basch, even when journeying with you, and here I am still." Balthier grinned. "The future is never written in stone; in everything we have a myriad of choice."

"This is also no game."

"I've never thought it such."

"You," Basch growled then, and Balthier bit down quickly on his lip to suppress a shiver. Gods, but that gravelly sound was pushing all the right buttons. "Can be _truly_ irritating."

"Opinion duly noted," Balthier snickered, as he pushed himself to his feet, then flinched, when Basch was abruptly before him, his arm grasped in firm fingers, though without enough force to bruise.

"Balthier. I've already thought it over. I won't leave, until you do. When it's time for whatever you've arranged, make sure you're there, too."

"That may not be possible."

"Then I won't go."

Balthier found himself growing annoyed, and suppressed the emotion. Basch was too focused now to change his mind, and there was an immediate, easy way to push him off balance. He used the other man's strength to pull himself closer, saw Basch inhale sharply, and the tips of his ears pink, as his personal space was blithely invaded. Balthier smirked.

"Even if I make a promise?"

"What... what promise?" A stammer. Cute. Basch's eyes kept darting between his, and his lips.

Balthier used his free hand to yank down Basch's chin and taste him, flicking his tongue over lips that parted quickly in surprise, delving in with a purr, wet, a little awkward from how stiff Basch abruptly became, and hells, the man tasted _good_; sharp, mint, clean. He wasn't kissed back, but there was an indescribable little noise, in the back of Basch's throat. He wasn't pushed away.

"That after you fly," Balthier whispered, when they broke apart, "I'll see you again, in the future, and then, I'll be a free man, able to finish what I've just begun. You'll do no one any good were you to stay, and you know this."

Basch sucked in a deep, ragged breath, then to Balthier's surprise, leant down and claimed his mouth, rough, desperate, and taking every inch that Balthier cared to give, growling and shuddering against him. He could feel the heat from under the older man's shirt, and the fingers around his arm tightened like a vise. He would bruise, now, but he didn't care: the sky pirate curled the fingers of his other hand into short-cropped hair, closed his eyes, and moaned, wordless, more.

"See that you do," Basch hissed in his ear, when he finally pulled back, furious at the gambit, wanting him, helpless and not comforted in the least. _Cared_.

_And this is goodbye_, Balthier thought, when Basch let him go, whirled, and stalked away. In the silence, he pressed fingers to swelling lips, and did not smile.

-tbc-


	7. Purpose

Rules of Engagement

7

Purpose

_"Judge-Magister Gabranth__ wrote in his memoirs '_Time on a Distant Shore' _that Draketongue's 'sole humanity' was the Old Kingdom's White Dragon clan's heir, Feng-yin. Little is known of what truly happened to her after the so-called Draketongue Crisis had ended, as the Old Kingdom keeps information about itself and its billion subjects close. Still less is known about how and why Feng-yin chose to follow an adopted uncle out of the luxury of the Imperial Court to a distant land, alone save for her personal guard. It is said she desired knowledge. The less charitable have suggested more lurid reasons behind her sacrifice, which are most likely unfounded. Feng-yin is, or perhaps was, the second heir of a powerful noble house of the Old Kingdom, and her love was a commodity to be traded for connections..."_

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Feng-yin _felt _rather than heard the Ghostkin tense, beside her, as she inclined her head to the guards before Draketongue's private chambers. Her personal guard numbered four of her father's finest, and they were always on alert, just outside the Veil. "Draketongue expects me."

"Pass," one of the guards said, knocking a staccato on the door. It opened to the foyer, which was really a circular walkway over a white lily pond, the underwater light mottling the ceiling and giving the room a surreal, dim glow flickered by the thick teardrops of lazy carp. She skirted the walkway to the stairs edged into the wall, up to the second tier.

At this time in the day, she knew where Uncle would be. Draketongue's studio was a room with stark white walls, its concrete floor blotched with paint. There were no guards in the studio. His advisers, and even Feng-yin herself, had spoken out against that, but their words had fallen on deaf ears.

Draketongue was in profile against the row of long windows at the end of the chamber, closed against the morning cold. He inclined his head slightly to acknowledge her presence, and went back to painting something on a large easel, careless of the stains on his pale robes. On a low table beside him was a raised board of mixed colors, two cups of discoloring water, and a cylinder of brushes and pencils.

She circled behind him as unobtrusively as she could, to look at his work, and smiled. Draketongue was painting the Imperial City of Yangchen, in the soft blues of a winter morning. One of their favorite places: the golden carp pond in the Eastern Gardens, frosted over in the winter with thick ice, the fish as golden flecks under the frosted surface. There was the bronze bench where they had first been introduced, and the skeletal boughs of the Shenzi tree that she had loved to climb.

"Nostalgia, Uncle?"

"Passing fancy. The clouds reminded me." Draketongue's voice was distracted, as he dabbed bark into dry relief on the Shenzi tree. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

Behind her, a drying painting seemed to float off a chair and move to lean gently against the wall, while the chair drifted over to rest just behind her knees. Feng-yin sat, with a nod to her guard. "The Judge."

"Ahh." Draketongue seemed emotionless, but to one versed in his moods as she was, Feng-yin saw the slight way the man rolled back his shoulders, relaxed. This had been a subject that should have come up long before. He did not have to ask her verbally to elaborate.

"One keeps a trained hound from its master to one's peril."

"Humans can have many masters, like dogs," Draketongue countered, without missing a brush stroke. "I have but forged anew a leash he likely did not know was there."

"His regard for the thinker-companion, Balthier. I do not think they are… associating."

"Deep friendship is often better a leash than tangles of flesh. Do not discount the Viera."

"The sky pirate betrays little."

"He is young as you are."

"Are you being insulting, Uncle?" Feng-yin grinned.

"You know me better than that, girl. You speak to me too much like your mother. Words within words. You wish actually to speak to me about Balthier."

"Words _without _words," Feng-yin retorted. "You speak too much like my father, with so little compromise." Her father's name would never come up between them. It was their agreement.

"You've spoken to him. There are few others about the Manse your age who have yet a mind enough to themselves to be worthy companions to one such as yourself. You would plead his life?"

"I plead nothing," Feng-yin said, and in her voice was an unconscious arrogance of a descendant of a line far older than Ivalice had entertained civilization. "I ask of motives. You are never wasteful. If you do not want his life then give it to the Old Kingdom in tithe to the White Dragon. We could have much use of him."

"I've long known your true purpose for being here," Draketongue said then, after a pause, the sudden coolness in his voice startling Feng-yin to a blink. "You are poaching, niece. Talent from Ivalice with which to build an Empire. Your father's, or your descendants."

Feng-yin relaxed subtly, as though relieved. _Good. He had not guessed_. His back turned to her, Draketongue did not observe. "The House wars stagnate, in a way that can only be broken by new blood."

"Your father's well-given to theatre. I had almost believed his anger."

Feng-yin's lips quirked briefly into a wry smile. "He is indeed not often given to wrath."

"So you ask his life."

"I have said."

"Then it will be yours." Draketongue shrugged slightly, as though he cared little. "Him and the Viera, but not the Judge."

"I care not about the Judge." That one would find his own way: her Ghostkin had already spoken to her, invisible as they observed the scurrying denizens of the Manse. Ones were coming, and it would amuse her a little to wonder if she should aid or impede them. But the sky pirate would know her aid for what it was. _A life for a life_. And she felt she might someday need favors.

Feng-yin's lip curled again. No, it was she who was most like her father, now. But had she not come to this barbarian continent, after all, to learn about the acceptable balance between brutality and leadership.

--

_A lonely girl still_, Draketongue thought, as he painted, as Feng-yin began to talk more chattily about the Imperial Gardens. Born to power, and therefore, born to few friends but a handful of eunuchs, invisible assassins and a white-skin 'demon'. He supposed if he had been the sort to entertain regret, it would have been having less and less time for the one true friend he had made in the Old Kingdom, as he grew more and more powerful. More like the father.

_Here to learn... feh!_ Yes, certainly about machines. And certainly to find new blood for an old civilization growing inbred by its customs. But not in the way she made it out to be, Draketongue felt. Yes, Feng-yin was the herald. The jade phoenix, the herald of things to come. _War_.

Her father had said as much to him, after all, in his cold, precise way. But it was their way, not to tell their children; not directly. To see if they would learn their purpose, then sink, or fly. Feng-yin was the seed for war, in a series of intrigues upon intrigues whose surpassing complexity had at its core the work of her mother, her father's second concubine in public, his most trusted advisor in private.

To bear a child to be fascinated by the workings of the new world. To let her run so wild in her childhood under pretext of indulgence, such that her peers would forsake her company, such that she would befriend a newcomer as strange as herself. To help a stranger in his vendetta against his own race by making his birthplace the catalyst for the creation of a device that would plunge the nations of Ivalice into disarray, then war. Fit for conquest. And the reason: the loss, or the death, of a Clan daughter. The Clans would rally around the White Dragon's flag.

Favor from the God-Emperor. War that would break the centuries of inter-Clan squabbling that was slowly crippling the world's oldest civilization. Draketongue wished he could tell Feng-yin. He was genuinely fond of her: encouraged as it was, her kindness to him in a strange world had been equally genuine. He was fond of her, but his first loyalty had always been to her clan.

Draketongue brought the Shenzi tree into muted glory with a few finishing daubs of the brush, and felt that it was fitting how its spirit, in the Old Kingdom mythos, often represented the unwitting martyr.

--

Balthier has always been a gambling man.

He loved games of dice and cards, the feints, the tricks, the tactics, sometimes the cheats. Money is antecedent to this pleasure; it is but a way, as the cliche ran, of keeping score.

And there is no better gambit than to play with your own life at stake, where the dice and cards are words, actions, omissions. It is why piracy has come far more naturally to him than a Judge's life. It was why he felt so alive now, as he climbed on top of the round table at which he had been drinking with Fran, only slightly tipsy from brandy, to wait for the babble of voices to stop.

When the hush came, he spread out his palms, as though to welcome a storm. "Gentlemen, ladies. I've completed the weapon, and so I am right now, before all of you, exercising a right to name it. The Bane Cannon." In the stunned silence that followed, Balthier smirked, and executed a little bow, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. "That is all."

Fran and Balthier made it out of the door just as the uproar began. Denial, command, fear, and most of all, _purpose_.

All the pirates that had remained were here for the killing.

And Gods, he knew they would whet it first with the blood of natural enemies. Balthier hoped that wherever Varney and Nae had squirreled themselves, they were making good on their words.

The next corner walked him and Fran into a wall of Draketongue's personal guard, cold-eyed men who motioned that they were to follow. Balthier kept his smirk, but hoped he would not have to pay overmuch for making good on _his_.

--

Basch sat on the couch, facing the exit, and wondered why the armor felt so cold over his shoulders when he really should be overheating. He had not spoken to Balthier since that night: the man was obviously avoiding him. Even the message of the time of his rescue had been carried by Fran, as had the wish of luck, the promise to meet again.

His mind was a tumult of conflicting impulses, and irritably Basch supposed this was what Balthier intended all along. Want was too weak a word to describe the constant longing: it was as though, he felt, it had been there all along, but waiting for the correct trigger to be fanned into flame. Need was too strong a word, that his pride cared not to consider, which was inaccurate, in any case. Need implied lengthy association, infatuation: what he felt was not that at all; more like a constant, thorny, possessive worry. Basch was not new to matters of the heart: he recognized the emotion for what it was: a beginning of things, the spark from which something could grow.

Damned pirates. Did they have to steal _everything_? The reflexive thought amused him, startled him into a chuckle, and Basch rubbed his eyes hard with the leather edge of his gauntlet, uncaring of the cracked rasp of old leather against his skin.

Then sounds that were intimately familiar, for one born to his life: the ring of metal against metal, shouts, thumps. As Basch got to his feet, he felt could hear the whispery gargle of death-rattles in his mind's ear, even if the wall's proofing locked that out. Presently, the doors hissed open, and two men stepped into the room, one slender, one heavily built, both dressed in Draketongue guard livery. Behind them, the two 'real' guards lay dead. "Judge Gabranth," the smaller man said, beckoning, "We're to leave. Hurry. The killing's begun, and we don't have much time."

Basch blinked. "The killing?" Balthier had said nothing about killing.

"Aye, your friend's a smart one, I'll say," the larger man spoke in an odd burr from which Basch absently traced Dalmascan peasant-stock intermingled with a Balfonheim pirate slur. "Announced completion of the cannon in the tavern room. Ha! Knives were out even before Draketongue could call order."

Basch made his decision then even despite days of telling himself he would follow Balthier's direction. "We can't leave without them. We have to get Balthier and Fran."

"Aye, and he said you'll say that," the smaller one said, and there was something wry in his tone that set Basch's honed instincts alert. "I'm Varney Silverunner. My big friend there's Nae Marlinspike."

Varney held out his hand to shake, and Basch grasped the palm, warily. "Gabranth."

Then he hissed and jerked his hand back, at the feel of a needle's prick through the leather and into the pad of his hand. The world was blurring before his eyes, as he staggered back, slumped against the couch. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. The last words he heard were wrapped around a snort of irritation from Varney.

"Didn't we tell that damn-fool pirate lad to convince his friend not to wear bloody armor? He's going to be a fucken _pain_ to carry to the hangar-"

--

They were taken not to Draketongue's office, as Balthier had expected, but to the laboratory. Draketongue was already there, within the glass cage, watching him with emotionless eyes. Feng-yin was at his side, and she smiled hesitantly at him from behind her adopted uncle's shoulder.

"Balthier," Draketongue began peremptorily, "You need not explain yourself to me. I already know why you lied."

"Lied?" Balthier inquired, with a feral grin. "You wound me, Draketongue."

"Driving back the chaos away from this laboratory has been surprisingly difficult, and we've lost control of the outer ring of the Manse." Draketongue said evenly. "Difficult enough, perhaps coincidentally, for Judge Gabranth to have mysteriously disappeared from your quarters."

"That's an incredible and curious coincidence," Balthier drawled.

"And you've not completed the cannon, by any means."

"I may have."

"If you had, I would have been told."

"And I would have been killed."

"That may not have been the case," Draketongue said flatly, and behind him, Feng-yin grimaced. Ah. Balthier briefly entertained the idea that he had made a mistake, then shook off the uncertainty. Even if his life had been spared by her doing, he was quite sure that Basch's would not have featured in the equation. Getting to know the Old Kingdom girl had been interesting, but he had felt through all her questions about his life that she had really been more interested in his mind than any real friendship.

"Uncle…"

"Your words have saved this man and his companion today, Feng-yin," Draketongue turned to regard her, his eyes ungentle. "But that is all. When you do complete the cannon, Balthier… then, we will see how my humor has changed." He gestured for the guards to unbind the shackles from Balthier's wrists. "Have the Viera put in a solitary cell. Double Balthier's guard. And the rest of you, prepare for the siege."

"Draketongue-" Balthier growled, furious, but was coldly cut off, as the man strode past him.

"You've made sport of my generosity, sky pirate. If you'll not have your Viera partner suffer overmuch, perhaps you should see quickly towards truly completing your project, before I lose my patience."

"Not quite so long ago," Balthier said, as Fran was led away, "You told me you did not wish war with Archadia."

"There is murder, and there is manslaughter, and self-defence, and things said to a person to get said person to do what you want at any given time," Draketongue's smile was thin. "Would you have aided me from the beginning were I to say the Judge was to die? Now, with the weapon complete, I would no longer have needed the Judge to be alive as surety. I would have thought you quite familiar with definitions and calculations, given your past history, Balthier."

"Shoot down the airship," Draketongue turns to his guards. "If we can cripple them, capture them. If we can kill them, no word is to out to Archadia, until the cannon is finally complete."

--

Basch woke groggily to the sounds of warfare. Gunshots and the ring of metal, and he was being half-carried, half dragged, his arms slung over uneven shoulders. His body's first response to the sluggishness was to panic, but he forced that down, made himself breathe regularly, and remember. Voices beside his ear.

"He's woken up, Varney."

"I can see that," Varney sounded amused, but there was an underlying strain in the pitch of his voice. "'least we took off some of that bloody heavy armor. Hope you don't mind, your Judgeship."

Basch wanted to talk, but words navigated his tongue only as a strangled murmur, even as his vision cleared out of the blur. They were in a hangar, falling back to an airship, sleek and blue, about the same size as the _White Rose_, which was right against it. Pirates fought pirates, and the room was slippery with blood and loud with gunshots and the hoarse moans of the fallen. Thorn abruptly darted into their vision, her broadsword and chain mail stained liberally crimson, favoring her right leg. "Ready t'go, Varney?"

"Aye, aye, missy," Varney grinned, then jerked abruptly, shuddering and collapsing. Unsupported, Basch went down hard onto his shoulder, the breath knocked from him, seeing the ooze of blood paint the pirate's shoulderblade. Varney was gasping in pain, coughing, then hissed, when Thorn yanked him to his feet with surprising strength.

"Go!" She hauled his arm over her shoulder and started to the gangway of the blue ship at a brisk pace. Nae dragged him similarly to his feet, grunting and cursing under the effort.

"Wait… wait, Balthier," Basch protested thickly, as he was pulled up the cold metal slope and dumped on the plated ground. His shoulderplates and breastplate had been removed, but thighplates, greaves and gauntlets appeared to have been given up for being too complicated. Nae was speaking in a low tone to Varney, then there was a Moogle dressed in green skirts pattering over, the white gleam of a cura spell. Footsteps indicated Nae had stalked off to the cockpit.

Varney sat up beside him as the Moogle padded off, the ship's glossair engines humming into life. "That didn't go so poorly. Though, I have to say, I really hate being shot. It just doesn't have the personal touch of say, being stabbed."

"We shouldn't have left them," Basch stilled his mind against the primal panic of being crippled, however temporarily, took deep, measured breaths, ignored Varney's good-natured chatter.

"No other way to spring you without an appropriate diversion," Varney began, then cursed as Nae's voice crackled into the internal broadcast.

"_Cannon at eight o' clock! Cannon at eight o' clock! Hold on, mates, this could get a wee bit hairy!_"

"Well, _somebody_'s enjoying himself," Varney scowled, dragging Basch up against the wall, then hooking one arm over the low vertical bar set next to the raised gangway. "Sorry 'bout this, Judge." Varney had just held him up via an arm over the chest against the wall when the ground seemed to tilt crazily at an angle, for such a large airship. Basch's stomach seemed to lurch sickeningly down to his boots, as loose items clanked and rolled across the deck: a cylinder of a map, someone's plastic cup, and a screwdriver. He concentrated hard on these items to push down the automatic bile. Aftereffects from anaesthetic and aerial acrobatics did _not_ go well.

The ground seemed to shift again, and Basch grimaced as the map rolled back down over the ground and promptly hit him over the flank. A sea map of the edges of Archadia's territory: he frowned blearily at it before Varney grabbed it and tucked it behind his back. Ah. That was it. The name finally clicked. "Varney Silverunner. Pharos Draehra."

"Pleased to meet you too, I'm sure," Varney grinned. "I'll shake your hand, but the drug will wear off only in half an hour or so. Sorry 'bout that, we were warned that you may be difficult."

"Warned… by Balthier?" Basch breathed out a sigh of relief when the ground finally stabilized, to a wild whoop of triumph over the broadcast.

"We have cleared the Manse. Repeat. Cleared and flyin' home. Over an' out."

Varney waited until the crackle of static died off, then nodded absently. "Hope the lad knows what he's doing. Dangerous gambit he was playing."

"Gambit?"

"Pretending to have finished the cannon. Announcing it to sow chaos."

"I saw Thorn in the hangar."

"Aye. There's a lass who knows where the wind blows. She didn't want the cannon in Archadian possession, sure, but didn't like how Draketongue seemed to be treating its acquisition." When Basch blinked, uncomprehending, Varney added, "Her Purveema's a small 'un. No match for Draketongue's might, if it came to that. Your master's been busy with contracts and agreements, Judge. Some o' us helped you just so to wash our hands o' the matter, until it settles."

"I see." Basch realized he really shouldn't have been surprised. True pirates, creatures of the air or the sea, disliked authority from whichever side of the gallows. That made Balthier's position now, left in the Manse and possibly paying for his part in gambling Basch's freedom, all the more tenuous. He felt an irrational pang of guilt for leaving him behind. Logic was no comfort for regret, and the thorny worry ate at him constantly.

He could only hope that Balthier's – and Fran's – resourcefulness would be sufficient for them to free themselves, or at least to survive until he could persuade the new Senate to allow him a force with which to return. In terms of friends, Basch did not believe in balances of debts, only in preservation.

-tbc-


	8. Favors earned

"_It is not certain even today what transpired the day the Draketongue Manse was silent, the days after the pirate Balthier Bunansa discovered, quite by accident, what the Rozarrian weapon was meant to do. The casualties from the disaster numbered in the thousands, and the side-effects linger even today in traces atop the Purveema, even with decades of clean-up. Suffice to say the Draketongue tragedy was the catalyst for what was to come._"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

[A/N: What really killed my drive to write long stories: no time taking actual commissions for art gg. After this chapter I'll probably skip some time ahead into a Part II. Note: I think _Beiluj_ is the current Japanese name of Vaan's airship in Revenant Wings. No beta for this chapter – I'm just trying to write out the chapters before I get bored again, and I don't want to suddenly trouble satal after months of doing nothing. :O Maybe I'll get it beta'd in the future and re-post. And… oh hey! Eight chapters with no porn. Sad.

Rules of Engagement

8

Favors earned

"Glossair rings achieve lift by the controlled infusion of electricity into sublimated magicite," Balthier doodled absently on a sheaf of papers in his lap, his back pressed against the cold, greasy rails of Fran's cell. The protuberances of Fran's organic metal armor prodded into his shoulder, reassuring and solid, and he could feel his partner's slower breathing. She sat with her back against his, clawed hands clasped.

"In essence," Fran said, amusement threading her tone. It was an old joke between them both; Balthier was overfond of the phrase whenever he found concepts too difficult to explain in brief.

"Aye. Magicite consumes magical energy, but electricity it creates _into_ a highly volatile but easily harnessed form of energy, known commonly as synchronicity, which in a further reaction with channeled mathigen air turns the ring into something very much like a balloon, powerful enough to lift airships off the ground. The reaction with mathigen air turns it a pale glossy blue, hence the term _glossair_." Balthier paused. "I apologize if I am boring you."

"If it helps you think," Fran shrugged, and the metal dug further into his vest.

"Magicite is always found in a contaminated form, with veins of copper or carbons. Pure magicite has only been seen in the form of the shards supposedly cut from that Sun-Cryst, and their combination with electricity ended up quite lethal for many involved. That's the key to this weapon, I think. Something in it is meant to disrupt or amplify one of the two reactions needed for a glossair ring to _work_."

"You have said that the bullet is actually a casing that can conduct electricity." Technology intrigued the Viera, whose jungle home was distinct in its lack of it, and her mind was quick to learn its intricacies.

"The prototype we have is on a smaller scale than what it is meant to be, that much I can see from the notes coded into its mainframe computer," Balthier stared down at the scribbles that covered the page, equations and doodles and underlined concepts. He wished for a moment that he were back in Draklor, with its massive underground technical library, but a memory of his father's face chased the thought, and he brushed it away with a shudder. Fran tensed against him for a moment, then relaxed when he shook his head.

"How does the machine change the casing?" Fran inquired. "Perhaps your answer lies hence."

"I've looked for that answer over far too much coffee." Balthier passed the sheaf of papers with the pen through the bars to Fran, then turned away as the Viera began to browse through the notes. "I do believe the machine is in essence a very powerful, electrically charged polarity coil. Something to do with magnetism, perhaps."

Fran began to write, the pen scratching over parchment. "If you are focusing on change, perhaps you should consider what else the energy from magicite can be changed into."

"Almost everything, I am afraid. Synchronicity is something like raw magic. Hell, it is even available naturally, as-" Balthier paused sharply, as the thought struck him.

"Mist," Fran supplied, as she stopped writing. "Do you think that may be the matter?"

"Changing glossair energy into Mist via a polarity coil? I am not sure that is possible," Balthier frowned, taking the notes back from Fran through the cage bars and beginning to scribble notes from dredged memories of _Anthino's Treatise on Raw Energy_. "Certainly I doubt anyone has _tried_. Mist, after all, popularly breeds or attracts the less friendly kind of local fauna."

"But it would be an effective weapon."

"Oh yes, _if _it were possible. After all, the ship in question would no longer be particularly airborne." Balthier found the miniaturized blueprint of the weapon in the notes and added to the lines of annotations he had already surrounded the drawing with.

"The cannon is unfinished."

"And perhaps permanently so, at this rate. One might as well apply oneself to the perennial question of how to change lead into gold. Of course, they _did_ run out of ideas, the Rozarrians, or we would not be in this situation to begin with."

Old myths as those were difficult to shake, when there were any number of charlatans about happy to prove formulas to the gullible that turned out, in the morning, to be so much sleight of hand.

But therein in itself was another solution, was there not? Oh, it would be _dangerous_ indeed to attempt to cheat Draketongue now, so close on the first ruse, but pirates, Balthier would have to admit, thrived on that very thrill. He did not have to complete the cannon. He _could_, however, much easily complete it into a possible escape mechanism. A localized synchronicity pulse, perhaps, using the polarity coil, enough to at least disrupt the glossair generators in the labs, cause them to malfunction. And he could work with that, tease out that idea.

"You smile. Perhaps…?" Fran was watching him over her shoulder, expressionless.

"Aye. Perhaps."

--

Basch did not need to look up to guess who was approaching him. He sat on a stone bench in one of the quieter quadrangle gardens within the Department, staring at the trimmed beeches and overheating gently in his armor. Technically he was due for some leave, after having suffered so-called traumatic experiences during his kidnap – certainly the Senate was happy enough to use that as an excuse to disregard his plea to send a force to the Draketongue Manse as soon as possible.

Zargabaath's heavy tread crunched and clinked its way over to the bench, and the old man sat down in a rasp of heavy metal, his heavy helmet dumped with a clank beside him. "Ffamran was always an unpredictable little brat."

Basch looked up at him sharply. He hadn't mentioned Balthier at all, save where the Senate had questioned him thoroughly on his decision to stop the _Valefour_. He could guess that any insistence that the pirate had saved his life and needed to be saved in turn would have been met with disdain. After all, Balthier had betrayed Basch's friendship, and was evidently working with Draketongue to uncover the cannon's secrets. Basch's testimony had been based fully on the worth of the prototype and the need to recover it as soon as possible.

The old Judge-Magister smiled humorlessly at him. "How was he?"

"Likely in great danger," Basch frowned. "How…?"

"You were very careful to mention him as little as possible," Zargabaath pointed out. "And I know what the brat is like. He loves being in the center of matters. And, as I have already mentioned, he was always unpredictable. So he helped you escape."

"Aye." Basch had mentioned Balthier's name along with Lady Thorn and the others, citing a dislike of Draketongue's growing authority as a likely reason for their rebellion. Certainly Thorn, Varney, Nae and the other pirates that had broken out of the Manse had received a temporary amnesty from the Senate, which they likely found amusing. Basch had scarcely been pushed out of Varney's airship into the Archadian Aerodrome before they had left again, wary of the authorities.

"Need I mention that flying back by yourself, or with a skeleton crew, is suicide?"

It was Basch's turn to smile tightly. "I am aware of that."

"And so I do hope you will not appeal to our Emperor's very developed sentimental side and try to do just that," Zargabaath continued mildly. "You _are_ a Judge, _Gabranth_." There was the faintest emphasis on the name, a reproachful reminder to stay in character. That had been the most difficult matter of all, before the Senate. _Gabranth_ would not have cared for Balthier's life, only for the prototype's continued safety.

"I am also aware of that." Balthier looked away, down at the cropped turf.

"And 'tis time enough that the brat learned to suffer consequences." Zargabaath reached over and patted Basch's shoulder absently, the metal of his heavy gauntlet rasping over embossed shoulder plates. "I should not worry. That child seems to be Luck's own son, when it comes to escaping from difficult situations. Take Bahamut, for example." Zargabaath paused, when Basch did not immediately respond. "And indeed, t'would be inadvisable for a _Judge-Magister_ to involve himself overmuch with matters of piracy."

At that, Basch had to shoot Zargabaath an accusatory stare. "The man saved my life."

"Or so it would seem." Zargabaath said smoothly. "I do believe you. But this unfortunate business has long turned political, and Archades needs to tread lightly or risk angering Rozarria. Particularly – and, please just take this as advice from a friend – with regards to the Archadian Judge-Magister who caused the weapon to fall into the hands of pirates in the first place. You can best help Lord Larsa by keeping a low profile in the Department and allowing the politicians to smooth out the issue."

"And," the old Judge added sharply, as Basch seemed set to protest, "Were you to 'rescue' the boy under the Emperor's authority you would then be duty bound to hand him over to the Department. And it is very likely that during trial he would be sentenced to death to appease the Rozarrian Government."

"I did not see so far," Basch admitted softly. "But what you say makes sense."

"Of course," Zargabaath said, with a faint smile, folding his large hands in his lap, his voice lowering for a moment. "After all, you do not think that Ffamran and Reddas escaped from the Department by themselves, do you?"

"So what is your counsel?" Basch clasped his hands tightly together, until the joints hurt. He _couldn't_ simply stand aside and wait, and he hated that he had to.

"The matter is out of your hands." Zargabaath said, leaning back further against the bench and stretching. "But Balfonheim does not forget its own."

"I cannot be content with that," Basch muttered. _Balthier_. The cold tension in his belly had long festered into unrest, and he could barely sleep, let alone concentrate on his brother's work. Every aspect of his sense of honor railed at him to find some way to return to the Draketongue Manse, but logic and duty prevailed on him to stay. It made him uncomfortable, and Basch told himself that this conflict _had_ to be the sole cause of his unease.

Gods. The pirate could be so _damned_ impossible.

--

Habitual alertness woke Balthier sharply from his nap, as his subconscious registered footsteps. He sat up sharply from the desk, having dozed off onto folded arms atop a stack of haphazard notes, and winced at the cramp in his neck and arms. Pinpricks of pain fled up his right thigh as he tried to move his numbed leg, but he narrowed his eyes and looked around him, searching for the noise.

He had dozed off on the desk in the room overlooking the glass cylinder workplace that held the prototype. The lights were muted for the moment, the other scientists and assistants having retired for the night, but he could make out Draketongue's outline within the cylinder, padding around the prototype.

No guards in sight. Longingly, Balthier contemplated the damage that a sturdy thorium strut could do to a man's skull, but dismissed the notion almost immediately. Even were he able to escape to the Aerodrome before the alarm was called, he would be unlikely to have enough time to save Fran on the way.

Instead, he reluctantly shook the remnants of sleep and the cramp from his body and ambled down the stairs towards Draketongue, making as much noise as he could. Still, the other man didn't bother to look at him even as he entered the class cylinder. "Still unfinished."

"Aye," Balthier inclined his head, stopping a respectful distance away from the albino. "I have some ideas about how it is meant to work, but I do not see how the Rozarrians intend to-"

"So I have seen from your reports," Draketongue interrupted mildly. "I would agree. Perhaps the prototype had some other purpose. A trap all along, mayhap. A cleverly hidden bomb."

Balthier controlled his expression carefully. Draketongue could not have known of his plan – nor had he even begun rewiring the prototype as such. "I had your explosives team look over the prototype very carefully, Draketongue. There are no explosives. Besides, if you have read my reports then you would know that it is a polarity coil. They do not explode very well."

"Still, it _would_ be characteristic of the Rozarrians," Draketongue continued to ramble, running his hands over the metal. "A timed bomb, controlled by remote, perhaps, designed to set off a localized polarity reaction that would not only poison the area with Mist but which could kill off all the pirates in the Manse with a resultant explosion."

"Certainly you would be the first to hear of it were that the case," Balthier said dryly. The man was either paranoid or very, very aware, and the pirate knew he had to tread carefully. "I have no intention to blow myself and my partner up."

"Other than Lady Thorn's forces, Silverunner and the Draera's ruler, the other pirate lords are still battling my forces on the outskirts of the Manse," Draketongue mused out aloud. "I have no doubt that with time they will likely overcome mine. No doubt with the pirate lords so focused on the cannon, they would not have noticed the trap until it was too late."

Belatedly, Balthier realized that Draketongue was speaking in a dictatorial manner, as though reciting a report that he intended to make. Quickly, he dropped his eyes to the prototype, over its memorized shape, and noticed that the negative polarity cell, with its fat coils of ribbed tubing connecting to the main cannon, seemed to be subtly different. The cells themselves had not been moved – large, squat blocks almost as tall as Balthier, hastily constructed over the week in accordance to the blueprints. How had he not noticed the change before? When had they replaced the block?

Ah, but he _did_ use to sleep the nights off in his rooms. At night, there was no telling what could have been changed in the laboratory.

"What did you do?" Balthier asked quietly. "What did you place in the negative cell?"

"As observant as always, Bunansa," Draketongue smiled. "Very pure dragon's oil."

Dragon's oil. That was a highly explosive, volatile liquid, mostly used in mining, but most popular only in a very impure state, where it was easier to control. Even violent contact would cause a reaction, but what set it off the most easily was a surge of unstable magicite energy. Funneled into a polarity coil, it could act briefly enough as a negative power cell to begin the synchronicity reaction – and then explode.

'Explode', in fact would be an understatement. If Balthier recalled, mining explosives used only a tiny percentage of dragon's oil in their charges, partly because the damn chemical was bloody expensive, and partly because a tiny percentage was enough to blow up small sections of a mountain. He'd seen dragon's oil before, kept in a small canister as long as his forearm in a thrice-locked chamber deep in Draklor, but that was forty percent pure and already highly illegal.

First the sealing oil mixed into the dragon's oil to enable (relatively) safe transport would implode, and then the resultant violent heat and impact would-

"You'll kill us all."

"Very likely. Rozarria plans to exterminate us pirates. No doubt they would take the credit, or would be seen to be the culprits whatever they may claim." Draketongue patted the negative cell block, making Balthier flinch. "Perhaps the only survivors would be a pair of pirates already renowned for their ability to cheat death."

Balthier narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Straight to the point. Very good." Draketongue turned away. "In return for a favor, it is entirely possible that you could break your partner out _and_ escape out of the Aerodrome on your _Strahl_ minutes before the explosion."

"You want to blame the explosion on the Rozarrians. Why?"

"That is none of your concern." Draketongue said, a little sharply, then amended, "At least, it should not be. After all, there's no one you can talk to afterwards who would likely believe your story. Why would Draketongue wish to blow up his own manse? What motive would he have to pin the blame on people who would quite happily take credit?"

"And besides, were you to show yourself to the authorities, I've no doubt that you would be made a political scapegoat. You've likely thought as much already."

Balthier nodded warily. He had reasoned that far himself, from the moment he had chosen to betray his friendship with Basch for the survival of his vocation. There seemed to be little enough alternative, as much as he hated being obviously made a pawn in a chess game that he could barely fathom. He had no idea why Draketongue needed him, nor why he was abruptly agreeing to let him and Fran leave, and it disconcerted him. He had long believed that he had calculated all possible motives that the pirate lord had for the prototype and his actions to date. Still, he knew he would be a fool to pass on a chance like this.

"So I have. What is this favor?"

--

"What are you two brats doing here?" Rikken snapped over the broadcast feed at the _Beiluj_. "Didn't I tell you two to stay put in Rabanastre?"

"It's a rescue, you can't tell us to sit tight when a friend's in danger," Vaan protested in return, his voice edged in the feed with a crackle of static. "Rikken, it's _Balthier and Fran_ we're talking about. Penelo and I can be useful! We can fight!"

Rikken growled, sucking in a deep breath to chew out the damn kids over the feed, but Elza clapped a hand lightly over his shoulder, and he relaxed, with a grunt of suppressed anger, his hands busy over the controls of his own airship, the _Eastern Gull_, checking the proximity radar and the cloaking levels, their latitude and cloud cover. They were close to the Purveema, almost in range of cannon, and it looked as though the place was in an uproar. There were streams of airships of any size leaving the area, mostly civilian in make, and that was comforting, at least. They would be difficult to hit were they to try and land, in between the other ships traveling the other way.

It was a stupid idea and he felt now like he needed a brain check for thinking it up, let alone agreeing to do it when everyone else did so, but in the warm Balfonheim Manse it had seemed perfectly logical and sane that a small landing party could extract a couple of pirates from one of the most feared pirate Manses on Ivalice.

Right.

Gods, he _had_ to have his brain checked.

The brat and the Viera definitely weren't worth this.

He was only listening absently to the background broadcast chatter, as the Balfonheim pirates discussed exactly where to land and what they were supposed to do. 'Discussed' in piratical terms, meaning loud, vulgar mudslinging with little constructive effort, admittedly, but Rikken had been somewhat surprised to see how many sky pirates had shown up when he had put out the call. Balthier had a lot more good friends than he had really let on.

So. They had six ships, one of which was manned by a couple of kids, and they were about to attack the _Draketongue_ Manse.

Rikken stared sullenly at the dark hulk in the distance, wishing it would go away, as Elza began a long tirade against the captain of _Millions_, with an impressive vocabulary of sexual performance references.

As such, he was the first person to see the sudden bubble of bright orange that seemed to bloom over the crown of the Manse. He opened his mouth to shout something, anything, then was flattened against the back of his seat instead as a shockwave rocked the ships out of alignment and cloaking. Startled cries behind him told him that the violent jarring had knocked most of his crew off balance, and shouts and curses from the broadcast feed informed him that the other ships were in a similar state.

The captain of the _Ourobo_ was the first to respond. "That's _dragon's oil_, that color! It explodes twice! The initial blast is just the mixed in sealing fluid-"

Rikken cut her off, in a panic. "All hands on deck! Engines to maximum, we've got to get the hell out of here!"

They managed to turn around just in time for the second blast to hit. Hull alarms shrieked over the inner feed and the roar of the explosion as the _Eastern Gull_ rode the edge of the massive shockwave, a fish thrown from the edge of the surf, tilting crazily to the right, one of his mechanics yelping behind him as he smashed against the deck. The holofeed showed the escaping civilian ships behind them that had risen above ground level on the Purveema picked up by the blast and obliterated in shrapnel of twisted metal and writhing fireballs. He could only imagine the screams of those within, killed in an instant.

Spinning helplessly in the air, listening to the panicked reports of his mechanics (glossair three _down_, glossair four _bleeding_, hull integrity sixty per-cent), Rikken switched his ship to full manual and braced himself against the steer as it bucked in his hand. "Force landing… I repeat, we are going to make a forced landing!"

_Gods help us_, Rikken thought, the beach rising up quickly to meet him, hauling on the steer, his crew hastily strapping themselves to the ship. There was a sudden, bonebreaking jerk, his stomach lurching sickeningly, as the ship changed the last of its propulsion to reverse, the large emergency parachutes billowing out to catch the winds, then he grit his teeth against the jarring screech as his ship hit the sand, sloughing a trench, sand and grit spraying over the cockpit. There was a final whine of metal as the _Eastern Gull_ lurched heavily onto its right.

"Everyone all right?" Elza's voice was the first human voice to rise over the shrieking of the hull alarms. "Mox, I think Wren's leg is broken, try to get to the first aid. Helena, Nian, shut off the engines onto the backup. Rest of you, survey the fucking _damage_. Rikken, what the hell just happened?"

"I… kinda wished the Manse would go away," Rikken hiccupped, stifling a bubble of hysterical laughter.

"Don't fuck with me, man!"

Rikken took a deep breath. "Obviously the pirates blew themselves up. How the hell should I know?" He logged into the feed. "How's everyone?"

"We were on the edge of the blast. Looks like those of us in bad shape managed to make a landing – that's you and the _Ourobo_. Rest of us are hovering on standby above you. _Beiluj_ has gone on scout."

"_What_? Tell those two damned brats to get the hell back here!" Rikken roared.

"We can hear you just fine, you know," Vaan's voice cut in, sounding injured. "We were smaller and faster than all of you guys, so we're the only ones unscathed. 'Sides, the explosion died down, though it seems the Purveema's on fire. Seriously. All the buildings are burning up."

As Rikken considered this, a familiar, dry tone cut through the broadcast feed. "Wouldn't do to leave without a grand finale, of course."

"_Balthier_?" Rikken gasped, his voice swallowed quickly by the babble of shouts over the feed.

"Oh, did all of you show up to rescue me? Thanks for the thought, as much as it wasn't necessary." Balthier continued merrily. "Yes Penelo, Fran is fine. We'll circle over to the _Eastern Gull_."

"What happened, Balthier?" Elza grabbed the feed input from Rikken.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you. But I do think I know what is to come."

Rikken blinked at the deadly seriousness in Balthier's tone. "What?"

"An end to piracy, Rikken. But that will probably only be the beginning."

-tbc-


	9. What the birds saw

"Following the destruction of the Draketongue Manse and, therefore, the official death of Her Excellency Feng-Yin of the White Dragon Clan, apparently by murder, the God-Emperor of the Old Kingdom sent representatives in protest to the kingdoms of Rozarria, Arcades and Dalmasca. It was agreed that the pirates, in their battle over the prototype, had destroyed each other and Her Excellency, and as such, the God-Emperor named a Mandate-Vendetta against the pirates of Ivalice. His Majesty the Emperor of Arcades, Lord Larsa, graciously allowed the construction of an Imperial Gateway on the Tchita Highlands, from which strode forth the first Summoners that Ivalice had ever seen, and the Old Kingdom's spirit-living engines of siege and war. The first pirate haven to fall was Balfonheim."

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

9

What the birds saw

Basch seldom, if ever, heard Lord Larsa raise his voice in disagreement, and this novelty stayed his hand before he knocked.

"…and you are _certain_ that no bomb was present? Al-Cid, this is a matter of utmost importance!"

His Grace the Grand-Duke of Rozarria, on the other hand, kept his tone reasonable. "Come now, Lord Larsa. What else would you wish? A signed statement in blood from all my scientists? Besides – not that I am accusing anyone of such – the prototype did spend some time on an _Archadian_ destroyer."

"It is well that you do not call blame, because Gabranth would _never_-"

"Whether he would, or he would not, the matter stands that this White Dragon child was killed by a bomb, installed in the prototype, of which both our countries have handled." Al-Cid sounded bone-weary, and there was a heavy rustle of fabric, as though the Duke had just slumped into one of the stuffed velvet couches in Larsa's office.

Basch decided that he had eavesdropped long enough, and rapped politely on the wood. "Sir."

"Come in, Gabranth," Larsa said, and Basch entered the chamber, closing the door diffidently behind him.

Larsa's private sanctum used to be his brother's, and Basch often wondered how much Larsa had really put his private grief behind him: it had changed little since he had first seen it, years ago: all of Vayne's souvenirs from his youth of conquest remained framed on the walls – here a scrap of tapestry from the Makir province; there an affixed, ceremonial sacrificial dagger from the Rothoar tribes. All that Larsa had added was another set of shelves, a little order in the cabinets, and one of his brother's spare blades, in a glass case over the door.

"Your Grace. Lord Emperor. You sent for me?"

"No need for formality," Al-Cid said, waving him with a melodramatic sweep of his arm to a couch. "We've heard tell of some rumors from the Old Kingdom forces that it is entirely possible that the pirates were _not_ the culprits of that child's death, after all."

"And the rumors are quite absurd," Basch said, unsurprised. The Bureau he had inherited from his brother handled military intelligence, after all. "As you say, there is a belief that either Rozarria or Arcades was the source of the bomb. Dragon oil was used, it seemed, which is an extremely expensive substance, difficult to find in such pure a form as samples taken from the Purveema suggest was used. Save-"

"In the Rozarrian coffers, for use in creating Imperial fireworks," Al-Cid supplied, with a wry smile.

"And in the Arcadian Emperor's military custody, for creating experimental weaponry," Basch continued, with a glance at Larsa. His Emperor sighed.

"I understand what you suggest, Gabranth. No doubt the Old Kingdom wonders so themselves. How would some pirates have attained a large enough quantity of pure dragon oil with which to destroy themselves?"

"Still, you do not see my point, Larsa. _Why_ was the child living with pirates, in the first place? Were she not on the Purveema, the destruction of more than half the Pirate Lords in Ivalice would have been seen as a blessing." Al-Cid thumped his fist down on the stuffed arm of his chair. This half year had worn down the Grand-Duke – he looked thin now, almost unhealthy, and there were dark rings under his eyes.

"Ah, but by the reasoning of the God-Emperor, she was there as a _guest_ to Draketongue, who was a close friend, it seemed, of the patriarch of the White Dragon Clan," Larsa pointed out dryly. "She went to Ivalice with the blessing of her father, who claims that he had no idea what Draketongue truly was."

"The girl did not write home very much, did she?" Al-Cid said dryly.

"She was very much attached to Draketongue. And, by the testimony Gabranth has given, he showed her much kindness. Perhaps she turned a blind eye – she was very young, after all. And this is quite irrelevant." Larsa added, a little testily, his renowned temper long frayed.

"Truly? Well, other than that, we have made quite the blunder – you, myself, Queen Ashelia," Al-Cid sunk deeper in the armchair and closed his eyes. "By allowing them to occupy Balfonheim – so close to Archades – and Tal-hadir, in Rozarria. True, they have all but eradicated our pirate infestation, but they now show no interest in leaving. And you have seen firsthand the power of their arsenal. Now they have three Gates near Archades and two near my capital, Kurdis."

"Dalmasca appears to have been spared, Your Grace," Basch pointed out.

"Dalmasca is yet recovering from Archadian occupation. I am not certain how much aid Queen Ashelia can lend us, were she even politically able to do so," Larsa opened a folder on his desk, leafing through correspondence. "The hatreds of her recovering citizenry still run deep. She has kept neutral so far."

"She is actually the reason for my visit," Al-Cid said, folding his arms behind his back. "This room is secure, I trust?"

"As much security as half a million gil in wards and machinery can buy." Larsa sat up straight. "What do you wish to discuss about Queen Ashelia?"

"I have been thinking," Al-Cid said mildly, "And this may be a long shot at first, but a certain pair of pirates of our mutual acquaintance have been known to be very good at being seemingly dead, when they are in fact alive."

"You speak of Balthier and Fran. They are dead," Basch said, his voice steady. He had long done his mourning, and it had been surprisingly painful, for all that he had known the pirate again only for a brief time. "I encountered Vaan and Penelo before they left to take refuge in Dalmasca under Queen Ashelia. They accompanied some ships from Balfonheim to the Purveema, and witnessed the explosion. Few ships survived, and they did not find the _Strahl_. Rikken told me that they were not amongst the refugees."

"I did speak of being seemingly dead," Al-Cid said, reproachfully. "Now, following this little thread, assuming that they are not in fact dead, where would a pair of the most wanted pirates in the world hide?"

"In Dalmasca, with Vaan and Penelo," Larsa said instantly. "Queen Ashelia has a gentle heart under her steel. You are suggesting…?"

"They are dead, Your Grace," Basch insisted, leaning forward. "They must be."

Al-Cid looked at Basch for a long moment, until the Judge-Magister began to blush, then back to Larsa, who shrugged slightly. "Even if they were not, Al-Cid, what use would there be of finding them?"

"The Bunansa family's name is known even in Rozarria, Larsa. And as your Magister has told us, Balthier was instrumental in researching the prototype. Perhaps he would know what ensued. Then the Old Kingdom representatives would return and we would have a diplomatic solution to an increasingly warlike situation for a change."

"It remains that this is purely hypothetical on your part," Larsa argued, then frowned when Al-Cid began to fumble in the sleeves of his heavy ceremonial robe. "Al-Cid…"

Al-Cid tossed an iconograph print to Larsa, then one to Basch. "One of my little birds took this picture in Dalmasca, half a week ago."

The print showed the bazaar, shadows harsh from the scorching Dalmascan sun, thronging with business. Shopkeepers stood on crates to stay above the mass of humans, Seeq, and other races as they bought and sold. And behind a bangaa precariously balancing a ceramic pot on his head was a pale blonde man in Dalmascan dress, his skin bronzed by the sun, his head half-turned to address someone behind him.

It was unmistakably Balthier.

Basch swallowed the lump in his throat and fought the heat prickling in his eyes. So the pirate had survived. But then, _why_ had he not-

"So you see," Al-Cid said, and Basch realized hastily that the Grand-Duke was watching him closely, "The pirate survives. The question of his partner is a little more difficult. One Viera looks more or less the same, were she to dress in those little white tunics."

"Fran is different in that she has white hair," Larsa mused, staring at the photograph.

"By the same logic you would say that you could recognize the pirate Balthier by his brown locks," Al-Cid pointed out, with a lazy smile.

Larsa conceded the point with a sigh. "Did you speak to Queen Ashelia?" the Emperor placed the photograph delicately on his desk, as though it would combust at any moment, his eyes now unreadable.

"She denied all involvement, of course, even when I showed her the photograph. Naturally. Balthier is her friend, after all, even after everything. That is why I asked you to call 'Gabranth' to this discussion. You did live in Dalmasca for many a year, and perhaps Queen Ashelia will speak to you where her loyalty to her friends causes her to keep her silence with us."

Larsa turned to look at Basch, and his expression was uncomfortable. "I would not order you to go."

"But you would ask, sir?" Basch did not look up.

"Aye. I am sorry. But you need not go in any official capacity," Larsa amended quickly, his implication obvious. Were Basch to meet Balthier in Dalmasca, he need pay no heed to his role as 'Gabranth'. Basch would have smiled if he could – as if t'would be so simple a thing as assuming a role in theatre.

"I will leave for Dalmasca on the next flight, Lord Larsa."

--

When the door closed, Al-Cid smiled, as Larsa shook his head slowly. "I do not like your methods, Al-Cid."

"You made no move to stop me, Lord Emperor," Al-Cid drawled, with a teasing emphasis on Larsa's title that the Emperor pointedly ignored.

"Balthier was – is – my friend. But he did play that unforgivable trick on Basch's feelings. I do not know." Larsa clasped his hands tightly under his chin. "And if the alternative is war… I truly do not know what we should do. We do need the information from Balthier – that much I agree. Giving him up to the Old Kingdom – that I do not. If their interest was solely in conquest, I can assure you they will not stop so easily."

"No. They will not," Al-Cid nodded soberly. "But in the world of politics a week's delay, a month's, can be invaluable, and I do think the pirate would be worth just that. Put out the word, that the existence of witnesses to what transpired atop the Draketongue Purveema have come to light, and that we seek said witnesses with all ado. Delay and misdirect the representatives the Old Kingdom sends you."

"And so we wait?" Larsa pinched at the bridge of his nose, a gesture that made Al-Cid smile. "What?"

"Your brother always did that, when he was irked," Al-Cid said softly, and for all the amusement in the Grand-Duke's face Larsa was schooled enough to read his gentle warning.

"I remain just as much myself as the Arcadian Emperor, your _Grace_," Larsa said dryly, "To continue to disapprove of your methods."

"'Tis a start," Al-Cid grinned broadly. "A start. Now you just need to get yourself a gorgeous wife with nice childbearing hips to settle down with. I have many cousins of marriageable age, perhaps-"

"_Al-Cid!_"

--

Halfway through packing Basch was well enough past shock to look askance at Zargabaath, who was lounging in his (Gabranth's) apartment's couch in a military jacket and breeches, boots propped up on the scuffed antique table, looking at the photograph.

"'Tis after hours, but did you not say you were busy?" Basch said mildly, as he folded another shirt into the bag.

"If t'was your brother, he would have said 'get the fuck out of my place'," Zargabaath's wrinkled face crinkled into a grin.

Basch snorted. "Do not think I am not tempted, but I would not be so rude as to say that to a bearer of gifts." Zargabaath had, surprisingly enough, provided a couple of sets of Dalmascan-style vests and breeches which, although a little tight across the shoulders, were still fairly comfortable.

"My cousin has no need for them at his age." Zargabaath shrugged, "And you will stand out like a sore thumb in Archadian dress."

"I was planning on wearing my-"

"And I do believe 'tis time you disposed of that set of patchwork rags you were previously 'wearing'," Zargabaath continued blithely. "After all, people _usually_ dress at least decently when meeting lovers."

Basch turned bright red (to his embarrassment) and dropped the snow globe souvenir that Larsa insisted he give to Penelo, and spent some confused moments rooting under the bed for it. "That… that's not… I mean…" He took a deep breath. "'Tis not that way."

"Hah!" The old man looked satisfied, and Basch sourly remembered that for all of Zargabaath's reputation as a militaristic Judge, his severity in Court and his iron fist in classes, he took a paternal approach to treating his associates, and somewhere along the line Basch had been classified as such in the older Magister's mind. It was probably because Zargabaath was the one overseeing Basch's continued private reeducation in the Archadian legal system, and admittedly, he _liked_ the cantankerous old man, but…

"Besides, you did not answer my question. Were you not busy?"

"And _you_ are changing the subject," Steely gray eyes winked briefly at Basch before turning back to the portrait. "Certainly I am busy, but nothing that overtime on my Chief Aide cannot solve."

Basch felt a temporary twinge of sympathy for Chief Aide Trillian, and busied himself locating the antique scrollwork that Larsa wished to gift Queen Ashe. He was _fairly_ sure he had left it on the dresser. "We are not lovers."

"As of yet." When Basch's ears reddened, Zargabaath snorted. "I am very familiar with the look of matters, Basch. He _did_ use to be my Chief Aide. Even then he had more than his fair share of admirers."

That comment made something in his belly twist, uncomfortably. "He _is_ handsome,"

"And that said so stiffly," Zargabaath grin was almost sly. The damned ascetic old fox was _enjoying_ himself. "I but came to lend you the clothes, bring some wine and give some-"

"Advice?" Basch inquired, and had to hide his smile as the older Judge sniffed. "I am a little too old to be lectured, and you will but call your own age into question were you to persist. I think Balthier knows very well why he is sought, and what would happen were he captured, and I know that I am being used. Is that the sum of your advice?"

"Said so self-evidently," the older Judge grumbled, "Sometimes I worry about you."

"I but wish to know what occurred. Nothing else."

"You do have a duty as a Judge."

"Were you to see him, would you take him into custody? You are well aware what our current laws would dictate."

"I am not the one leaving for Dalmasca," Zargabaath said comfortably, "And were he to take leave of his senses and appear before me in Archades I daresay I can contrive not to recognize him."

"And you would put aside duty so easily?"

Zargabaath was silent for so long that Basch regretted his words, but before he could apologize, the old Judge said, quietly, "During the 'succession war' I stood aside as your brother killed a close friend of mine, Basch. Judge Drace was also his friend – she had been the first to approach a foreigner, so far away from his homeland and so out of place in the Akademy. The choice destroyed what was left of him, and I am not sure what standing aside has done to me."

"Zargabaath…"

"But then, I am an old man, and I am approaching the age of mandatory retirement," the other Judge smiled faintly. "Duty will excuse an old soldier of hers for bending the rules, I am sure. I lost many friends in the war. I am not sure I wish to begin the next with the loss of yet another."

"The next?"

"There will be war, regardless of what the Emperor can do, I think," Zargabaath stretched out further on the couch, turning his eyes up to the ceiling. "The actions of the Old Kingdom so far do not suggest peace, and I think this war was long in their planning. Why send a young girl with little or no escort to a distant shore, to live with a pirate lord? Surely they were but waiting for her death."

"Then we should simply prepare for war?" Basch looked over Zargabaath's shoulder, to the large glass windows that overlooked the central square park. Below, a group of children seemed to be playing tag around the trees, tailed by a large dog, which pranced around them, wagging its tail excitedly. Airships cruised leisurely past in the transway beside the square, over the sheer drop down to the Lower City. Archades was only beginning to forget the wars.

"We have no reason to oust them as yet. And they do not seem warlike to the citizenry. For the moment, all we have are suspicions, and they _did_ aid us greatly in disposing of the pirates."

That was true, at least – Basch had seen the colorful performing troupes, so popular in their staged dances in the Eastern Circle; the small contingents of scholars that thronged the University. Hells, only a week ago a group of the best students of the final standard of the Akademy had been drafted into escorting some military Old Kingdom personages around the Department. He vaguely remembered them sitting through one of the Court sessions over which he had been presiding.

"So you are saying that the citizens of Archades, at least, would greatly oppose a war." Basch said wryly. "And Lord Larsa-"

"Mayhap he listens overmuch to the 'voice of the people'," Zargabaath said, not without a little distaste. "But that is his will, and as I have said, I am an old man."

"As well as one of Archades' foremost generals," Basch pointed out. "If you foresee war, no doubt you have already begun your own preparations."

"You were also a general, Basch." That made Basch blink – for safety's sake, Zargabaath hardly if ever used his true name. "Whatever you may learn in Dalmasca, I hope you return once you have satisfied your curiosity."

"You take ever too long to get to what you truly wish to say," Basch said, recognizing what he saw as the old man's underlying request and acknowledging it with a faint incline of his head. He was going to Dalmasca to find and speak with Balthier, and that was all he would do, official capacity or not. "Rest assured, I have no intention of tarrying."

"And by so saying you have not heeded my words of the past half an hour," Zargabaath retorted, shaking his head. "Good luck finding the brat. When were you leaving again?"

"Within the hour."

-tbc-


	10. Roles to play

"_It is believed that His Majesty Lord Larsa of Archadia had sent Judge-Magister Gabranth in an unofficial capacity to Dalmasca to find the truth behind rumors of Balthier Bunansa's survival. That the need for verification on this matter was pressing enough that the Magister of the Thirteenth was sent is evident – at that point in time both Archadia and Rozarria were all but desperate to prevent what they saw as the war to come. It was hoped that Balthier had some further knowledge that would shed light on what had transpired on the Draketongue Manse. The pirate, however, was, even in his early twenties, well-known for his canny wit, and Gabranth would not find him where most believed he was hidden._"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

10

Roles to play

The first words that passed his former liege's lips were characteristically brusque. "You seek Balthier."

"Aye, your Majesty," Basch used the honorific with only a moment's hesitation. Dalmasca's newly-formed intelligence and security department was more efficient than he had thought – despite having registered on the flight to Dalmasca under an assumed name, he had been picked up by a pair of studiously polite but well-armed bangaa the moment he had stepped out of Rabanastre's aerodrome, and firmly escorted to the palace.

There was a brief twist to full lips, as Ashe looked away, her hands resting lightly on the warm sandstone of the carved balcony balustrade, looking out over her desert kingdom, and Basch could not discern if it was due to humor or distaste. He felt oddly uncomfortable in his sleeveless, silver-tooled vest and blue leather breeches – it seemed too obvious to his eyes in the harsh sun, the fading shade of his bared arms. Too long encased in armor.

Finally, Ashe added, almost as an afterthought, "Are you here as Basch, or as Gabranth?"

The question made him blink, for a moment – he was both, after all, now, and he was about to say so, but Ashe turned, and the coolness in her stare gave him pause. _That_, he was not accustomed to, and he could not hold her gaze, looking down at the mosaic tiles under his sandals, confused. Behind him, beyond the audience room, the faint sounds characteristic of pre-war Rabanastre castle were in full swing: the good-natured chatter of guards and the tramp of soled feet, the laughter of guests, the echoes of a teacher's loud oratory to his milling charges, the barking of any number of sleek palace hounds. Under the balcony, far below, soldiers drilled parades to the admiring eyes of giggling young womenfolk.

Pre-war Rabanastre castle had belonged to its people.

"Lord Larsa asked me to come, but not in an official capacity, your Majesty," he said at last, walking to the banister to lean against it, his back to the sky, his tread all too light without armor or his blades.

"So circumspect an answer I would not have expected from Basch," Ashe said primly, though there was a ghost of a smile on her lips as he looked sharply at her. "And you sound so stiffly formal."

"You _are_ Queen now, my Lady," Basch said, unsure whether to follow her lighthearted cue, his smile hesitant. "And I have been long in Archades. About Balthier-"

"No doubt Al-Cid brought the photograph to Larsa," Ashe mused, and sighed.

The sound made the young Queen look abruptly weary: her eyes were a little red-rimmed, her posture slightly slumped. She was dressed finely in diaphanous silks from Rozarria and starkly white doeskin gloves that hid her sword-callused fingers. Time had softened the muscle that the Resistance had built around her shoulders and arms, coiffed her hair into perfect tresses, the sapphires at her throat catching the sunlight, but the steel remained in Ashe's eyes and the set of her jaw. Basch felt proud.

"Aye, my Lady."

"And no doubt they felt that I would speak with you where I would not speak with them."

Basch nodded. So much was evident, at least, but he had not seen the _Strahl_ docked in the aerodrome, nor Balthier's mechanic, and for all that he had studied the Viera lounging against Rabanastre's warm sandstone arches on the way to the palace he had not seen Fran.

"So I would ask you again, are you here as Basch or as Gabranth? Balthier owes _Basch_ quite an explanation, I should think, but from a Judge-Magister he needs only protection."

"Gabranth would not have turned around," Basch said, at last.

"Have you forgiven him?"

Ashe was sharper now, Basch felt, for all her silks and rare perfumes; her blade was now her voice and her mind. _Had he forgiven Balthier?_ To tell the truth: Basch had not considered that – he had thought Balthier dead, and there was no use resenting the dead. Besides, Balthier had saved his life, and indeed there was likely something important the pirate was hiding, enough that Ashe protected him still. Was there anything to forgive?

"I do not know," Basch said, finally. "I thought him dead." His first reaction had been grief. "I had thought him _dead_." His second had been guilt. "And I had felt myself at fault."

Ashe's smile was wry. "Try as you might, Basch, you will never be your brother." She straightened up, squinting at the clouds, at a slow-moving cargo transport that scudded with majestic languor between the spires of the Library and the Eastern Tower, headed for Archades. "Very well. Balthier is not in the palace, but he _may_ still be in Rabanastre. You'll be hard pressed to find him, however: I spoke truth when I said I did not know where he was. He but asked for leave to dock in Dalmasca, some weeks back"

"I did not see his _Strahl_ in the aerodrome."

"There are other hangars," Ashe shrugged. "I do not wish to know where he is or what he is doing."

"But you know what he is hiding, my Lady?"

"Of course, as a matter of courtesy," Ashe said, dryly. "But I will not tell you. Regardless of my counselors, I would have hidden him even 'ere it otherwise." She paused for a moment, looking thoughtful, "And besides, I never approved of Rozarria's and Archades' call to exterminate the pirates. For, if you do recall, Dalmasca would not be what it is today, had we lacked their aid."

"I recall."

"Which is why you turned the ship around," Ashe seemed to be reasoning with herself aloud, clearly torn, then she sighed again. "Come with me."

Basch followed Ashe out of the balcony and the audience room, hid his smile at the lazy salutes from the guardsmen at their young Queen. He could see their loyalty, in the little frowning glances they shot him, but he felt that Vossler was likely turning in his grave. Still, the castle was back to the way he remembered, with its scents and its noise and its people, so much like _home_, so unlike the austere, cold stone halls of the Department. He had settled easily in Rabanastre – _then_, its castle had been like _now_, had been like Landis. Children pushed past them, less interested in their Queen as compared to the castle's armory, leaving their young teacher to wring her hands and apologize blushingly to a chuckling Ashe.

"Security – there seems to be _no_ security, no, better yet to say that 'tis _impossible_ to have security," Basch murmured, absently quoting from the past, as he sidestepped womenfolk laden with mops and scrubs and buckets of sloshing water.

Ashe looked back over her shoulder at him sharply, and then she turned her head away. "So he used to tell my father."

Rabanastre castle and King Raminas' continuous disregard of matters of personal security had been Vossler's favorite complaint. He had even managed, if briefly, to recruit a smitten Prince Rasler to his cause, which had resulted, also briefly, in a pair of bemused guardsmen assigned to then-Princess Ashelia at all times, up until both young royals realized how much this tended to affect the amount of private time they could spend together.

They had lost too much in the wars, and it had in turn left them ghosts. Ashe pushed open the doors to her father's study, shooed a small family of cats off the cushioned chairs, and began rummaging in a drawer. Basch had to grin. Raminas himself had never been one for servants, and it seemed that absent-mindedness could be hereditary.

A calico kitten had settled on his foot despite his best efforts to politely dislodge it by the time Ashe muttered to herself and straightened, passing him a slightly creased piece of glossy paper. A painted clown's mask was set in the center, its grinning face and bold text promising that 'Harlequin' was a 'miniature circus of delights' showing in Lowtown. Puzzled, Basch looked up.

"I am not _quite_ sure I approve," Ashe said, obliquely, "But the performance is fairly good."

What did this have to do with Balthier? Basch frowned. "Your Majesty, I am not-"

"And that is all the help I will spare you," Ashe said pointedly.

--

Despite his hopes, 'Harlequin' turned out to be a rather motley performance staged by children upon a 'stage' that looked to be made of several crates set together and covered by rather scruffy red velvet cloth. The performance was well under way when Basch took a seat in the chuckling audience and tried to understand what was happening. The children were all dressed in handpainted masks, and a blonde girl was imperiously gesturing at a pair of boys, one with sandy hair and one with close-cropped caramel brown, who stopped comically jostling each other in time to produce roses through sleight of hand.

Basch placed the children at eighteen or so at the very most, and leant back against the cold stone of the wall he had set his shoulders against. What _was_ Ashe thinking?

Perhaps she simply wished him to look around Lowtown, and not at this performance in particular – or was Balthier in the audience?

A sharp glance about, at both blonde and brown haired heads, showed no one familiar, and Basch relaxed again, trying to think. To look around Lowtown was a fairly impossible task for one man – the place was a warren of hideouts, though Basch _had_ heard that there were a few unofficial hangars buried somewhere in the catacombs, for the smugglers. Despite Vossler's best efforts, there was a healthy pirate presence in Rabanastre, or had been.

"… and oh," trilled the girl on the stage, in a rather painfully fake falsetto accent, "'Tis true, my heart knows naught, for thou'rt a knight, a pirate-"

Basch blinked.

"No, forsooth, my lady Queen," the brown-haired masked boy twirled to face the audience, "Not _just_ a pirate, but _the_ leading man."

Stunned, he stared hard at the stage, at the movements of the actors, their mannerisms, their voices.

Penelo and Vaan, and their childhood friend from Lowtown, whom he'd been introduced to once before. Kytes.

Openmouthed, he watched as Kytes and Vaan again proceeded to tussle with mock blows, while Penelo twittered at them, pretended to faint from the heat, got to her feet again when she was ignored, and finally, amidst the laughter of the crowd, stalked with a huff towards the edge of the stage.

"Men!" she proclaimed, producing a rose of her own from the billowing sleeves of her colorful quilted costume, "Art there no true men about who couldst catch my eye? Feh, but for the choice of Luck and her rose…!"

Basch fought the urge to flinch as the rose was thrown straight at him, and he blushed as the crowd laughed again, as the flower bounced off his vest and fell to his feet. He picked it up automatically, and glanced at the stage, but Penelo was already haranguing Vaan and Kytes, even as other children changed the props on the stage, adding some oddly shaped orange boxes that Basch could not for the life of him understand what they _were_.

"And so we should take your airship to battle the Evil Prince?" Penelo gestured grandiosely around her, and at _that_ Basch chuckled. Orange boxes. The _Strahl_. Poor Balthier! "I have heard he is a dragon, and as a dragon would, he breathes fire and spits acid, and his wrath is much to be feared. But as Queen I _must_ defeat him, to reclaim my rightful place."

"My Queen," Vaan said, dropping the rose and drawing a wooden sword with a flourish, "The dragon I will slay for thee, and place its head on a silver platter at thy feet!"

"Oh, how vulgar," Penelo stage-whispered to the crowd, which laughed.

"My Queen," Kytes shouldered past Vaan, "For you I would steal the world, lay its emeralds around your neck, aye, snatch the stars from the sky to be the rings for your fingers."

"Oh, and this one says nothing about the dragon," Penelo sighed at the crowd, then turned back to the boys, who were once again busy mock-fighting. "Very well, the first man to slay the dragon will have my hand in marriage."

The boys appeared not to have heard, and Penelo repeated the statement, louder, before finally letting out a loud sigh and pushing them off the stage, sending them sprawling with a yelp on the pavestones, then scrambling into the curtained, roughly-built 'backstage'. "It seems one must do everything by oneself!"

Some unlikely escapades and changing unrecognizable props later, a boy wearing an extremely unflattering mask likeness of Vayne and papier-mâché bat's wings was 'slain', with the Queen triumphant, and the actors bowed to applause. Basch waited until most of the crowd had dispersed before approaching the stage, just as Penelo sat down at its edge and removed her mask.

She grinned breathlessly at him. "Liked the play? You certainly took your time. We have been running this show for a week."

"I can see why Lady Ashelia told me she did not quite approve of the content," Basch said dryly.

"Real life is quite boring," Penelo said, with a wink. "She _should_ have fallen in love with either the knight or the pirate, and both of them _should_ have fallen in love with her, in turn. _That_ would have been romantic."

"Not to mention complicated," Basch fingered the petals of the rose, which was already wilting, despite the relative coolness of Lowtown.

"Instead of," Penelo continued, ignoring the interruption, "Both men of such curious backgrounds falling in love with each other, as it were." As Basch choked, she added, slyly, "Right?"

"We aren't… he isn't…" Basch blushed hotly and wondered when Penelo had changed from the shy girl she had once been to… a pirate. "You are quite mistaken."

"Oh, so we are _quite_ mistaken," Vaan drawled, sprawling down next to Penelo. "So you _didn't_ drop everything to come to Rabanastre, once you found out Balthier was here, and he _didn't_ pester Ashe every day with reminders to pick you up from the Aerodrome."

"He did?" Basch blinked slowly. "But how would he know-"

"And _you_ certainly didn't realize how remarkable it may be that Balthier could have been found, in a very public location, with the barest of disguises and within sight of someone obviously Rozarrian…" Penelo trailed off, and the children burst into giggles at his expression. "So you didn't! I am glad that you will never change, dear Basch."

"So Balthier lured me to Rabanastre – why now, and for what purpose?" Basch asked, more sternly than he intended, for all that it added to their mirth. Penelo glanced at Vaan, who shrugged, then motioned for Basch to follow.

He seemed to be doing far too much _following_ of late.

--

The Underground's Aerodrome in Rabanastre seemed subdued. Basch had been here twice before, and both on the journey to restore his liege, following Balthier when the pirate wished to conduct unnamed business. Basch had never had any idea why Balthier took him there – after all, ex-General as he may be he was still loyal to his liege and bound to tell her about the Underground – until it turned out that Vossler himself, as well as the Resistance, had routinely used the Underground's facilities for their own devices. As it was after Ashe was reinstated to the Crown, the permanent official perception of the Underground was that it didn't exist.

Favors owed and paid. The number of pirates and smugglers, however, seemed to have drastically lowered – he could count the number of docked ships in the cavern, set in a disused section of the Waterways, on his fingers: only half of the dock seemed occupied.

The Aerodrome's cavern had last been a set of massive drainage tunnels that led out to a fifth section of Rabanastre that had since been claimed by the desert, so Balthier said. Pirates and smugglers had converted disused archways into a sturdy hangar manned by Moogles and other mechanics, the chatter of instructions almost drowned out by the constant background growling of the portable glossair generator, which squatted as a blue-ringed gray hulk at the far corner of the room. Coils of wiring stretched from it to the refueling machines and to the control panels on the raised platform at the center back of the room which served as a control tower. Ships entered from any of three long-dried waterways that led out to a disguised cliff deep in the desert, near the Jagt. The cavern stank always of humanity, spices, the sharp, crisp stink of leaking glossair, metal and gunpowder. Ships ranging from the size of the _Strahl_ to an Atmos sat at dock in numbered bays, engineers and mechanics speaking with their often colorful, scarred Captains. One could almost have thought this Balfonheim.

Penelo and Vaan stopped before a small airship that, with some concentration, Basch remembered was named the _Beiluj_, smaller than the _Strahl_ but large enough to have armaments, in slim cannons under its wings. The children spoke quietly and briefly with Kytes, who nodded and scampered away, then Vaan pressed his hand against a dull blue panel besides the gangway.

The little ship powered up, the gangway lowering. Frowning, Basch entered the ship on their heels, then narrowed his eyes as the children settled themselves into the cockpit, Vaan motioning for him to take a passenger seat. "Penelo. Vaan."

"Do you not wish to see Balthier?" Vaan inquired, as a growing hum told Basch that the glossair engines were powering up.

"I do, but-"

"And he is not in Rabanastre," Penelo added, bringing up the holo panel and tapping into the local broadcast. "_Beiluj _requesting clearance for takeoff."

"Clearance granted in five, waterway two, over." A bangaa's gravelly voice crackled in, and there was a distant grinding sound. The airship gave a convulsive jerk that made Basch twitch, followed by a low oath from Vaan (not comforting), and then the _Beiluj_ rose from its docking bay, ponderous and (relatively) careful.

"If he is not in Rabanastre then where is he?"

"Archadia," Penelo said, merrily, and laughed when Basch stared dumbly at her. "Didn't think he would be hiding there, would you?"

"_Archadia_…!But… the photograph…"

"Nor would it have been _so_ very difficult to fly in to Rabanastre once or twice," Vaan continued slyly. "Up until Rabanastre was more or less soaked in Rozarrian spies, all convinced that Balthier had hidden himself in the desert city, hm?"

Misdirection. It certainly had Balthier's work about it, and no doubt it would have amused the pirate to hide within Archadian territory, just under the Empire's nose. He, however, could find little mirth in that which was not bitter, that the pirate had been so close but had not… Basch silenced his resentment. He did not now doubt that Balthier must have had his reasons: and had he not always known, in any case, that the pirate placed his own survival over all else?

"Do you know what he preserves?" Basch asked finally.

"It's best you see for yourself," Penelo said evasively, as they soared out into the harsh sun, the glossair engines charging into a dull roar as the _Beiluj_ entered hyperdrive.

"My luggage-"

"Ashe will get it delivered eventually, maybe. This is the best way to get you out of Rabanastre to Balthier unofficially," Penelo pointed out, and with that, Basch had to force himself to relax, too dizzy from the sudden revelations and the knowledge that yet again, the pirate had been one step ahead.

"By kidnapping," he said, wryly. When the children giggled, he sighed. "At the very least I should contact Zargabaath."

"You'll think differently," Vaan said, checking the altitude indicator, and rechecking the fuel gauges, "Once we get there."

-tbc-


	11. Ranor

[A/N: Following Family Ties http://manic-intent. was in Ranor that I encountered Balthier Bunansa, then already on his final stages of completing the Limit Engine, a further developed version of which is already in use today in long-haul cargo airships. He had little to say about Draketongue or what had transpired, and indeed on first encounter suspected that I was a spy for His Imperial Highness Lord Larsa Solidor. Even after weeks of interaction and innocent inquiry, it seemed that the most I would ever receive from the wary pirate was a degree of grudging tolerance. Perhaps the war had changed Balthier Bunansa, or perhaps he had always lived as this, but he kept all his cards close to himself, and his only confidant appeared to be his Viera partner, Fran."

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

11

Ranor

Vaan took the _Beiluj_ to a less than comfortable landing into the villa's private hangar, with a jaw-crunching jerk that made Penelo giggle and Basch dig his fingers into the seat of his chair. It had been a fairly uneventful flight, though it had been hours since he had stopped recognizing the landscape, as it petered out from highlands into slumbering mountains, over rolling woods and finally to a coldgrass steppe that reminded him a little of Landis, with its pale, almost blue grass. Even with the internal regulator set with glossair energy, he could feel the temperature drop steadily, and he had racked his middling knowledge of geography for a location.

They had been heading north for a while - he could read airship latitude-longitude terminals fairly well - which meant that, likely, given the amount of time they had been in hyperdrive they were likely nearing the northern edges of the Empire, close to the coasts of the Miststorms, the deep oceans that scudded into unstable Jagt-like interference for magicite-reliant glossair airships about a clip or so from the beach. 

Finally, he had given up. His knowledge of Landis' and Dalmasca's geography had been minute, as befit a General who was trained also in ground tactics, but life in Archadia was still a blanket that he was assuming, and the Empire's size was twice that of Landis and Dalmasca both. 

"Where _are_ we?" He asked the children, finally, as a voice crackled into the feed confirming their identity and clearance.

He'd been quiet the last two hours after continuous teasing about his relationship with Balthier and had tired of the playful jibes. There had been nothing to it, he was sure now, with all the manipulation he had just undergone: Balthier had assumed a role that suited his purposes at the time - Basch's acquiescence to being removed from the Manse, likely due to some sense of guilt or quid pro quo. He didn't doubt Balthier's capacity for that: at least over the course of their journey with Lady Ashe, the pirate had certainly shown, at times, some gasping remnant of a conscience, compassion and a sense of honor.

"We're in Ranor," Vaan said obliquely, and something made Penelo giggle again. They were evidently enjoying their secrets. 

"_Why_ in Ranor?" Basch asked patiently. "And this is no doubt a rich man's domain." The pillars that supported the roof of the hangar were weathered marble, almost tastelessly so, and the mansion, though rambling, had an elegantly manicured garden that spoke to Basch of wealth.

"It's the home of the Consul of Ranor, actually," Vaan said, and grinned when Basch blinked at him, in surprise. "Nice person. Eccentric, but I think it runs in the family."

"Do not tell me that _you_, or Penelo, or _Balthier_ are somehow… involved with…."

"Balthier certainly," Vaan grinned, and seemed disappointed when Basch's expression carefully did not change. He had certainly considered as much in the two hours, that Balthier had simply found someone else to use. Certainly he likely needed someone with power, and the further one ventured from Archades and its influence, the more powerful were the Consuls of the Empire's territories. That Balthier would have somehow involved himself with the Consul was all luck, audacity and cunning.

The gangway opened to a babble of voices, in which Basch picked out a barely understandable, likely local dialect and one voice in smooth, cultured High Archadian. He followed the children out into a compact hangar with two other berths, the one at the far end occupied by a sleek, expensive red airship, and the other filled prominently by the _Strahl_. Nono recognized him from atop one orange wing, waving a stubby paw, and Basch felt his throat finally constrict, just a little. _Balthier was here_.

The mechanics – a bangaa and another Moogle – were shooed away to attend to the _Beiluj_, and he looked hard at the tall, slender man the children were addressing, instead. Judging from the liveried servant waiting attentively behind him and a pair of armed guards discreetly further, this was the Consul of Ranor: a strikingly handsome man, likely only a few years his junior, with shoulder-length chocolate-brown hair under a dark velvet hat. A white fur-trimmed robe of fine wool was draped over his shoulders, the only concession to the cold, and doeskin belts traced long thighs to booted feet. His grin was mischievous and oddly familiar, as he shook Basch's hand firmly.

"Judge-Magister Gabranth, let me apologize for the rather clandestine way you have been taken here. Please accept the hospitality of my humble home."

"It would be my honor," Basch said, a little more stiffly than he intended. "And you have the advantage of me, your Excellency."

"Ah, how remiss of me. I am Audipher Bunansa," the Consul said, and looked sharply at the side when the children burst into laughter. "What the devil do you brats find so amusing?"

Basch tried his best, but he still flushed, and he could not understand why he relaxed. _Oh_. "I had not known Balthier had a brother."

"He has two, actually," Audipher said dryly, with a final suspicious glance at Vaan and Penelo. "We're not quite sure whether we are more embarrassing to him, or whether _he_ is more embarrassing to _us_. So for the past few years it has suited Balthier, Midian and myself to ignore the existence of each other." There was a pause. "You probably know Midian by his Judge's moniker, Rath."

"Judge Rath, from the fourth circuit." Basch had read a couple of his judgments before, coldly brilliant pieces from the Judge who headed the fourth circuit out of Archades.

"Oh yes. We're quite an accomplished set of fellows," Audipher said, turning for the doorway, the children scampering on before him. "A Judge, a Consul and the most wanted pirate in the world at this point in time. But you've not traveled so long to bandy words with me, I warrant. This way."

--

Thankfully, Judge Rath was still embroiled far south, in a large case: Basch wasn't quite sure how many more sudden Bunansa brothers he could handle at one go. Now that he _knew_, he wondered how he could have missed the family resemblance, in the set of Audipher's chin and the curve of that mischievous smile, the shade of his sleek hair. Audipher was older, Basch judged, for all that his walk was so jaunty and his dress so gaudy: there was something more guarded about his speech, something more calculating in the way he had looked Basch over and taken his measure.

Basch supposed he was not surprised that Balthier had volunteered nothing about his family. They had not even found out about Doctor Cid's relation to Balthier until fairly late in their journey; and besides, none of the rest of them other than Penelo and Vaan had said much at all about their own kin. They had all been strangers, thrown together by the barest of coincidences, blown down the same path for a brief spell by fate.

The villa was constructed of solid slabs of stone that retained the chill despite ample trappings of elaborate tapestries and thick carpets, large paintings of gardens and women lounging in feminine play or chatter. The hangar was connected to the western wing, Audipher said, happy to provide all of the conversation while Basch looked around him, curious; the bedrooms were in the north, the servants, the south, and the parlour and dining in the east. They turned a corner past the enginemaster's room and into what looked like a storeroom, stacked with dusty boxes and arcane, twisted metal parts that Basch could not for the life of him place. A Moogle glanced up at them from where it was consulting a list in its paws, atop a crate marked 'Gyromatronic Fulsifiers' and nodded politely at Audipher.

There was a door at the end of the crowded room that was already open, and Basch could hear the faint echoes of Penelo's laughter, as he followed Audipher through it and down a narrow, dark set of stairs.

The room under the hangar was brightly lit, with a computer panel in the center, surrounded by a haphazard circle of tables, upon which coils of metal, wiring, boxes of magicite, a glossair generator, tools, rags and scrolls of scrawled blueprints took residence in a mechanical jumble that hurt the eyes. More blueprints had been taped to the blank walls, hand-drawn with intricate lines, on one an airship, the rest Basch surmised were probably component parts. Tomes were stacked on one chair, with a flask atop it filled with stale coffee.

At the computer panel, Balthier was remonstrating animatedly with Vaan to put down the god-_damned_ chronatomic adjuster, though he stopped and looked up sharply as the tread of full plate announced Basch's presence.

Basch hadn't known what to expect, and he certainly hadn't thought Balthier would simply look him over cursorily and turn back to the panel. "You're on time, at least."

Balthier was thinner, and paler, and there was something feverish and haunted in his eyes that profoundly disconcerted Basch. He looked exhausted: there were dark hollows under his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped under a rumpled blue shirt, his hair a little disheveled, and immediately Basch lost much of his resentment. The pirate looked strung-out, struggling out of his depth, a victim rather than a master of circumstance, all of a sudden too _young_.

Beside him, a long cylindrical metal device sat on a table of its own, ringed by glossair and coiled to the generator certainly did not look like the weapon he had transported – and in fact appeared to be an airship engine.

"What are you building?" Basch asked, his tone now conciliatory, walking up to the engine. Behind him, Audipher had wandered up to a slim youth fiddling with a cube of colorful wiring and nodes, a pretty young boy around Vaan's age, with dark auburn hair cropped short against his scalp.

Balthier followed his eyes, and his lips quirked for a brief moment before he turned back to his panel. "David Walsinram, thesis student from the University of Archadia, do meet Judge-Magister Gabranth. David somehow managed to track me down from Archadia and is attempting to research the so-called 'end of piracy'," Balthier drawled, with a sharp glance at the youth, who grinned shyly.

"Pleased to meet you," David said, not meeting Basch's eyes, as he turned back to the box. "Perhaps we could do an interview one of these days, when you are free, sir."

"No doubt a Judge-Magister would be happy to assist a student from the University," Balthier said, and the slightly stilted tone to his words confused Basch. Unless the pirate was _involved_ with the student, which seemed possible, given how the boy's looks, and how odd it was that Balthier would have allowed a mere student to know of his location and his work.

The ugly knot in his belly made him frown – and to his consternation, Audipher glanced at him and began to chuckle. "Balthier."

"Audipher is ten years my senior, and Midian, fourteen," Balthier continued blithely, ignoring the playful warning. "Technically we've been estranged since my late father married again after the death of his first wife."

"I liked your mother," Audipher shrugged easily, as though this was a conversation worn old by familiar repetition, its words more custom than response. "It was Midian who objected. But in any case I had already accepted a posting to Ranor, so it was difficult _not_ to grow distant. Still, I did agree to help you."

"Without Midian's knowledge, and indeed it was a long shot on my part." Balthier allowed Basch another brief glance. "Remember, Gabranth. I'm estranged from my brothers. And Vaan and Penelo took you to a secret northern location, where I was developing the Limit Engine. Can you remember that?"

"You want me to tell that to Lord Larsa." Basch could feel the edges of this particular net now, and it did not suit him.

"Aye. I owed you an explanation, but not so much Larsa or Al-Cid. If you delay a search for a week or so that should be sufficient. The Engine is complete and needs only a couple of days' field testing."

"What are you _building_?" Basch persisted.

"An engine to allow his _Strahl_ to cross the Miststorms," David murmured, when Balthier did not answer. The pirate glared at the boy, who shrugged. "You owe him an explanation, Balthier."

"Cross the Miststorms? But why?" Basch demanded. "If you wish to hide, no doubt Ivalice is sufficient. Unless-" and this thought made his belly constrict further, "Unless you wish to visit the Old Kingdom."

"Perhaps I do," Balthier said mildly, "Imagine what an adventure that would be. No one has made the crossing via airship, only via portal."

"You cannot speak their language!"

"Happily," and this said quite dryly, as though the pirate was suppressing amusement, "This would not be a problem."

Basch turned to David, who was still industriously working on the cube, hoping to appeal to the boy's reason, were he truly bedding Balthier. "You must know that to do this may be suicide, and all pointless."

"Well! At least then he would be in fine company," David said, his smile a little wan. "For I too will visit the Old Kingdom. And it so happens that linguistics is one of my majors."

Basch couldn't help but feel instantly left out, and even more confused – why was Balthier bringing a boy to the Old Kingdom, and not… Basch stopped that train of thought quickly. Going through the Miststorms was madness. "Balthier."

"_Balthier_," Audipher continued, this time with a grin, with Penelo and Vaan giggling behind him (though for what reason Basch could not discern, his mind grasping only at the enormity of what Balthier was suggesting he was going to do), and the pirate sighed.

"Oh, very well. I do suppose this is enough. And yes, we've more than satisfied our curiosity as to the efficacy of the disguise."

"Disguise?" Basch frowned, and froze, as David swept a hand over his face and his outline began to shimmer, shorten, fill under the clothes. The long fingers became slender and feminine, and when they came away, Feng-yin smiled nervously at him, looking slightly embarrassed at his shock as she folded her hands behind her back, the male clothes sagging over her shoulders. He could only stare.

"Too many shocks in a day, I think," Audipher broke the silence, which made the children laugh again, though Balthier simply snorted, turning away to scribble something on a blueprint. "Man probably needs a stiff drink."

"I think," Basch said finally, when he found his voice, "That I _need_ a fuller explanation."

--

Balthier was alternatively bullied and dragged away from the engine up to the parlour by Audipher and Penelo, and eventually sat somewhat sulkily on a maroon couch while tea was served. The parlour was filled with a bachelor's trappings, despite the evident best efforts of the servants: a pair of battleaxes hung above the mantelpiece, looking quite out of place against the somber wood panel and more portraits of beautiful women. At that point, Fran walked into the room, taking a seat next to Balthier and nodding in acknowledgement at Basch.

"Draketongue gave me a choice," Balthier said finally, brusque, when the butler left. Feng-yin was back in her 'David' disguise, nibbling on a macaroon. "Save his niece and escape, or die. Favor for a favor. Then I was to hide her for a month. Naturally, after this month-"

"The 'war' on piracy started in full," Basch murmured.

"When it became increasingly evident that the Old Kingdom's target was not the pirates but Ivalice itself I decided to ask Audipher here for help. Before that we were hiding in Lowtown, Ashe being relatively sympathetic to the plight of hiding princesses," Balthier said, with a sidelong glance at 'David', whose smile was faintly sad. Ah, but then, by all appearances Feng-yin had seemed close to Draketongue.

"Why not simply return her to the Old Kingdom?" Basch asked. "Surely that would have ended matters."

"One month after the fact," Balthier said dryly, "And believe me I was pissed at _that_ when it finally struck me, even if I did have ample distraction. One month, and the Old Kingdom's 'representatives' were already well entrenched in Balfonheim and Rozarria."

"So Draketongue intended all along for the war to happen."

"No, I think what was _intended_ was that Feng-yin was to die in the Manse. Certainly her guards did, mysteriously. Her delightful father wanted a reason to invade Ivalice. I can only surmise that at the last moment Draketongue changed his mind, but only enough to preserve her life."

"Entrenched or not, surely-"

"Oh, and you should think it would be quite so simple, returning a young girl to the arms of those who tried to have her murdered in the first place?" Balthier's smile was sharp, and Feng-yin was looking down at her lap. "At least _she_ doesn't want the war, or Audipher, or Ashe."

"And you think matters can be stopped, were you to go to the Old Kingdom?" Basch asked. "It would well be even more dangerous!"

"If we can make it to Leicheng, I do not think so," Feng-yin said softly. "My eldest brother is the holds the District-Magistrate position there. He fell out of favor four years before I left for Ivalice, and was removed from consideration for succession as well as participation in the war. For that alone he may aid me, simply to transfer the favor of the God-Emperor to himself from my father."

Her pale face told Basch amply what she thought of this idea: simply as the lesser of two evils, a means of which there was little other recourse. "With his aid and presence we may petition the God-Emperor."

"You do not like the idea," Basch said, forcing his tone to be gentler.

"My eldest brother, Hu-sheng, is a cruel man who thinks only of his personal gain. We were never… close."

"_That_ is my problem with the plan," Audipher interrupted, sounding irritable, as though he'd argued this before to no avail. "This Hu-sheng seems just as likely to betray you back to your father, to get back into favor."

Feng-yin shuddered. "No, his position will not change and he knows it. My father is a complicated man, but he has condemned Hu-sheng's excess in irrevocable terms." Audipher shook his head, but sipped his tea.

" 'Complicated' is a good euphemism for someone who tried to sacrifice you to start a war," Balthier murmured, then yawned and held up his hands as Feng-yin stared at him. "I know, _Princess_. Despite everything you honor your father, and all that."

"He believes he does this for the Old Kingdom," Feng-yin said, finally, in a small voice. "But there is a better way. I must gain audience with the God-Emperor."

"And you, Balthier and Fran will leave for the Old Kingdom. In two days." Basch brain tried its best to catch up with matters, still reeling. Feng-Yin was alive. Balthier planned to cross the _Miststorms_.

"The brats wanted to go, but _thankfully_, Ashe dissuaded them," Balthier said, with a pointed glance at Vaan.

"Blackmailed us, you mean," Penelo corrected.

"So you'll have the pleasure of our company for two days, after which you'll be free to return to Archades and satisfy your Emperor's curiosity." Balthier crossed his legs and sunk deeper into the chair. "Don't look like that. 'Tis not so dangerous as you should think: only a flight through the Miststorms to a city, and I assure you the Limit Engine _will_ work. We won't be haring around the wilderness like the last time with Ashe."

"And if you cannot fly through the Miststorms after all, or there is a complication in the city…"

"Then I do believe that you will have more than enough on your plate, what with the war," Balthier stared out of the long, frosted-glass windows at the storm-grey sky as he said this.

Basch came to the first conclusion in his mind. "Anyone within this room can relay a message to Larsa."

"Before you ask, I am not taking you along," Balthier said sharply, with a stern glance at the children and his brother as they grinned. "Even if that was so, no doubt Archades needs all the Generals it can get."

"Of which it has many, as an _Empire_," Audipher said innocently, and at Balthier's scowl Feng-yin hid her smile with graceful fingers.

"I am _not_ changing my mind," Balthier snapped, and stalked out of the room, dumping his teacup with a clatter on the table, followed by Fran, and with some hesitation, Feng-yin.

Basch waited for the laughter to subside before observing, as mildly as he could, "There _is_ nothing between us."

"If you want to follow him – and you would lie if you say you do not; and what _that_ should mean to you I am sure you can consider for yourself," Audipher grinned, "You'll have two days to change his mind."

"What happened to him?"

The children glanced at each other, abruptly sobering, then back at Basch. "Why do you ask?" Penelo inquired.

"Something drives him to the Old Kingdom, and I doubt 'tis purely an altruistic impulse to avert the war." Basch turned his eyes back to the open door. Balthier's nervous tension had been palpable, and the look in his eyes still disturbed the Judge, a victim's eyes, almost, with poorly scabbed trauma.

"Balfonheim happened," Vaan said softly.

-fin-


	12. A meaning of courage

"_Balfonheim withstood the Old Kingdom's siege for a week, its streets turned with blockades and traps into a killing zone that mired organic engines and murdered Orient Summoners with knives and guns in the dark. Small airships hid in the cloud cover above, waiting for any flier combatants; seagoing vessels ringed the port, deterring attack from the waves. But the Old Kingdom's advance was inexorable. Soldiers fought with a bloodthirsty fanaticism that ignored casualties, turned into berserkers under Summoner magic. Monsters called from another plane ripped apart stacked crates and furniture, blew fireballs into would-be ambushers. On the sixth day, most of the survivors who were left had either fled or perished, and the rest barricaded themselves in the Manse._"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

12

A meaning of courage

"Elza is dead."

Basch had looked all over the damned villa for the pirate: Balthier had not been in the underground lab (its parts scrounged from Draklor by Audipher, it seemed), nor in the hangar, the kitchens, his rooms: in the end he'd found Fran in the gardens and _asked_. Climbing up to the disused bell tower in the crumbling chapel set beyond the south wing of the villa had been treacherous in the grasping, chill wind, its steps steep and chipped.

Balthier sat on the ledge of one of the four arched windows with his feet dangling out in the air, leaning against weathered stone, the rusted bell silent behind him, his flat tone almost stolen by the breeze, his only concession to the cold a heavy fur-lined green jacket, which Basch surmised was likely his brother's.

"Balfonheim," Basch murmured. From the bell tower, he could look out over the coldgrass plains that stretched from the villa to the blue outlines of mountains in the distance; or to his left, to a sleepy village that sprawled outwards from a river and ventured into steadily logged pine.

"Rikken is in a coma. It's not likely he'll wake." Balthier continued, in the same flat tone, his shoulders hunched and his fingers in his lap. "I could name you everyone who was fool enough to barricade themselves in Reddas' Manse."

"Why didn't they escape? Others did." He felt for the edges of Balthier's grief, and knew that pain this soul-deep was far too heavy for the shoulders of one still so young. He'd seen enough of such, in the last war.

"Reddas took five associates with him – and one young brat bored of Archades – when he left the Department." That wasn't quite an answer, but Basch waited, patient. "They died in the Manse. Few others who'd known him wanted to do the same." A shuddering breath. "I was _hiding_. In Lowtown."

"That was-"

"I am not _foolish_, old man!" Balthier snarled, his voice pitched and cracking. "Don't you talk to me about logic and fucking _courage_ or-" Just as abruptly, the pirate seemed to deflate, and he sighed. "They knew what I was doing, of course. But Rikken said he was tired. Tired of running. Can you believe that? A damned _pirate_, tired of _running_."

Silence. Basch couldn't speak. Finally, Balthier lowered his head, his voice now a mumble. "Elza's been buried, discreetly, in Rabanastre. Rikken's in the care of doctors in the castle. Ashe did not tell you."

"No."

"Do you know how they got there?" Balthier asked, his tone forceful, and didn't wait for an answer. "Those two _children_, Penelo and Vaan. The Old Kingdom soldiers dug graves for the bodies. It was the rain season for Balfonheim, you see, winter, and bodies don't burn so easily." There was a slight trace of hysteria now, in his tone, and Basch cursed that he couldn't move. "There were no guards at the grave site. They waited for nightfall, looked through all the corpses in the shallow pit until they found Rikken, Elza, the others. He was still holding her hand in the dark, barely alive. _Children_."

Another breath. "And I was hiding in _Lowtown_."

"Balthier."

"I spoke to Rikken the day he and Vaan, Penelo, the others, came to Draketongue to get me. Stupid plan, stupid reason, against the odds, but they _came to get me_. I was out already by then, though, circled upon them when they were watching the purveema burn. I told him there was going to be a war. He said he knew. And I said – I said I was going to hide it out, that it was none of my business getting involved. Elza smiled, told me, there was only so much sky under which I could run." Below them, dogs barked, and there was a distant trace of someone shouting. "I laughed at her."

Basch approached the pirate slowly, making as much noise as he could. "It was not your fault. You could not have done-"

"I did not say it _was_," Balthier's whisper swelled back into a snarl. "Do you think that makes me feel _better_?"

"Would flying headlong into the Miststorms do so?" Basch countered, his hands careful on the pirate's hips, tentative, questioning. Balthier didn't move, for a moment, then cold fingers dragged him closer, pulled his arms around his waist. "Would going to wherever it is in the Old Kingdom with just Fran and that girl do so?"

Balthier twisted briefly in his arms, his teeth bared and his eyes bright under his furrowed brow, anger quick in the set of his jaw and the sharp breath, then the pirate sighed again, slumped against him, closed his eyes. "No."

"Then?" When the pirate didn't answer, Basch added, more gently, "Is it anything more than suicide?"

At that, Balthier chuckled, the rich, husky sound more of the old pirate Basch was familiar with. "Suicide, old man? Not so very long ago, a couple of children, two pirates, a closemouthed old knight and a young princess somehow managed to skip circles around the Empire, defeat an Emperor and, as it were, win the day. While what _we_ intend to do is simply to cross the Miststorms, fly to Leicheng and talk to someone."

Basch conceded the point, if grudgingly. "You'll still be attempting the impossible."

"Up until relatively recently it was also impossible to cross Jagt." Balthier was regaining some of his old humor – he glanced up at Basch, sidelong and playful, and his lips quirked. Abruptly, Basch realized how warm the body he held against him was, how _close_, and had to look away, downwards. He was glad he wasn't wearing his armor, but some 'borrowed' tunic, jacket and breeches from Audipher: this was more intimate, _human_, and Basch felt, wryly, as Balthier unconsciously shifted back to snuggle closer, that he likely needed this as much as the pirate, this visceral comfort of linking heat, lowering his head for a moment, sideburns brushing past the pirate's, to his bared neck, and for an all too brief moment he felt the pirate's breathing even against his.

Fingers were stroking absently over his knuckles, cold pinpoints of heat, restless, as though memorizing the texture of his skin and he _knew_. "You'll leave tonight."

If he hadn't been holding the pirate, he wouldn't have felt the sudden, faint tension in Balthier's shoulders, though the other man's tone was artfully nonchalant, almost amused. "Oh?"

"All that emphasis on _two_ days. Give me some credit for memory, Balthier. When you installed the new engine into the _Strahl_ the last time, to cross the Jagt, you took a week to test it to your satisfaction."

"Perhaps I am in a hurry."

"I doubt you would be in so much of a hurry that you'll risk the basic safety of Fran or yourself," Basch said gruffly, a little annoyed that Balthier only chuckled. "You fed me far too much information in too short a time, emphasizing the _two_ days that you would be here, in the hope that I would sit quietly in the villa tonight, trying to think, and not observe you leaving."

"Mayhap you are actually fairly sharp under that handsome face," Balthier drawled, and Basch ignored the little purr in the pirate's voice, the compliment, remained pointedly silent until he lost his playfulness, sighed. "All right. Fran warned me you would guess as much, but yes, I was going to leave tonight."

"Vaan and Penelo?"

"If you guessed, perhaps so did they," Balthier said, a little snidely. "Brats. But they agreed a week ago to remain here. They _were_ supposed to courier you back to Archades. And we've friends yet in the 'amnesty' purveemas who still need warning. I would be willing to bet that the Old Kingdom will start on them first."

Basch made a noncommittal sound, his nose now buried in the rich trim of white fur around Balthier's collar. The wind was dropping, the spicy heat beyond so close, and he was tired, felt surprised that he was, tired of trying to talk sense into the damned pirate, tired of his duty and his needs and the wishes of others. He inched himself a little closer, brushed chapped lips over soft skin, felt Balthier shiver and utter a soft sound, as Basch began to mouth at his neck, soft, feather-light kisses from his nape to his jaw. Balthier arched back, tilted his head to bare more skin, as he nudged his way past the fur and the collar to the sensitive point at the curve of Balthier's neck to his shoulder and sucked, rasping over skin with his teeth. Another soft, strangled noise, and the pirate's lips parted for breath.

When he pulled away, there was a reddened mark in the shadow of the fur collar. Basch pressed a last kiss to it and licked his way up, caught the pierced metal of Balthier's ear in his lips, carefully brushed his tongue over the twists of earrings, sucked lightly over the studs. The pirate shivered against him, _moaned_, and began to tug insistently at his hands, urging them down, past his belly, but Basch kept them where they were. _No_.

He wasn't aware he had spoken. Balthier's response was raw, almost petulant, hitching, all but squirming against the cold stone and the body he was pressed against. "Why not?"

"Not here."

Balthier's face twisted briefly in frustration, then he began to struggle. "Fine. The house is… _Basch_," the last was a soft whine, as Basch turned his attention to the other ear, lapping against its shell, then again sucking over the piercing. A glance downwards saw the pirate's fingers curled tight in his wrists, scoring pale crescents against his skin, his thighs tense over the stonework, leather breeches quite failing to hide his stirring want. He wasn't immune, pulling the pirate back further against him so he could rub himself against his pert rump, slow, rolling his hips, making Balthier hiss.

"Perhaps in Leicheng," Basch said, as blandly as he could, felt the abrupt tension in his arms, then Balthier was growling and struggling to turn, pushing at his arm, twisting violently, and unthinkingly Basch pulled him back all the way, safe of the drop, shoved him up against the crumbling wall and, as an afterthought, twisted one slender am behind the pirate's back, and waited.

Eventually the fluent swearing stopped, and Balthier braced his free arm against the stone and pushed back eagerly when Basch pressed against him, sliding a thigh between his legs, bit his lip as he felt the pirate groan and rub against him, leather slithering against cotton. "I wouldn't… wouldn't have expected this of you, old man," Balthier muttered, but there was something hungry now in his tone, something that told him he'd earned the pirate's curiosity over mere base want. "But the answer's still no. You're going back to Archades."

Basch tightened his grip pointedly over the pirate's wrist for a moment. "What makes you believe you will be able to leave tonight without me?"

"Why, are you going to break my arm?" Balthier asked, taunting now, glancing over his shoulder. "How else are you going to make me?"

This was, Basch would have to admit to himself (but no other) actually fairly gratifying, having the pirate under his thumb, however briefly; it almost made up for the past half year. He leaned closer, so his lips brushed the pirate's ear, fighting a grin, and growled, "There are other ways."

Balthier stiffened, and Basch took the opportunity to push his tongue into the pirate's ear. There was a long, low whine, a jerk of slender hips, and Basch felt Balthier's prick jump against his thigh. He was resting his forehead against the cold stone, cheeks flushed, panting and writhing, caramel eyes glazed. "You… you said you weren't going to-"

"I do not need to," Basch replied, trying to imitate the pirate's purr. Frankly, he wasn't sure _how _indeed, were his bluff to fail, but Balthier inhaled sharply.

"Basch, _look_, I can't take you with us, we've few enough excuses as it is to explain my presence there and _besides_ I don't think we can disguise you-" a gasp, as Basch hummed, the fingers of his free hand stroking playfully up Balthier's inner thighs, just short of the apex, and back down in maddening rubs. "… the mask is going to Fran and in any case you're needed here-"

"How long since…?" Basch trailed his fingers briefly up the swell in Balthier's breeches, fought another grin as the pirate bucked convulsively and whimpered.

"Fuck you, just fuck you," Balthier bit out, eventually, between gasps, "You fucking _tease_."

At _that_, the last of his resentment, disappointment, _frustration_ and the pirate's mercurial, capricious manipulation disappeared, and he pressed his cheek against a trembling shoulder and laughed. Balthier shuddered, sucked in a breath to curse him, then began to mutter to himself instead, in High Archadian, until Basch stopped, breathing hard, the remnants of mirth in his smile.

"We're even," Balthier said, almost sulkily, when Basch let him go and stepped back, the pirate massaging his wrist. Basch tried his best not to look at anything past Balthier's belt, circling back to sit against the ledge. When Basch arched an eyebrow, the pirate looked away. "All right. And I'm sorry. Sorry for not sending you word. It was a lark to hide for a month, and then-"

"And then Balfonheim happened," Basch said, soberly. "I was not looking for an apology for that. I understand."

"Then?"

"I would like an apology for how you continue to try and puppet me," Basch said dryly, folding his arms. "Well?"

"Sorry," Balthier said sullenly, then added, sharply, "But the _Strahl_ is mine to captain and you are _not_ allowed on board."

"And why?" Basch continued gently.

"I just _said_."

"Surely it would not be beyond your considerable intellect to come up with a suitable further disguise for yet another foreigner in the Old Kingdom."

Balthier's eyes narrowed. "I think I preferred the Basch who jawed about duty and honor all the time."

"It would in fact be my duty to aid you in preventing a war," Basch said, as ponderously as he could, and saw the pirate's lips flicker all too briefly into a grudging smile. "And if you intend to convince me that 'tis because you feel that the trip will not be safe, I would remind you that you yourself just tried to convince me that it would be."

Balthier opened his mouth, closed it, then growled. "Life on the Bench changed you, old man."

"I admit that I am glad you seem to care about my well-being to such an extent." Basch smiled, as winningly as he could.

"You're just pulling out all the stops, are you not," Balthier said sourly, but allowed himself to be embraced all the same, Basch burying his nose in his hair. Long fingers hesitated over Basch's ribs, then folded over the back of his neck as the Judge bent for the first, slow kiss. Outside the tower, the winds turned restless again.

--

To Balthier's evident irritation no one seemed particularly surprised when he announced (and this also with evident irritation) that Basch was coming with them to the Old Kingdom (and this said with the Judge studying the newly fitted _Strahl_ while he spoke, all the while with one arm almost absently around a slender waist). Fran had looked up only briefly before continuing to discuss synchronization matters with Nono; Penelo and Vaan had grinned, Feng-Yin had smiled, and Audipher had merely shrugged.

"I'll send word to Archades in a week," he said, perched on a crate in the private hangar and watching his servants trundle other crates of supplies and spare parts into the _Strahl's_ hold.

"We can do that. We can tell Larsa directly," Vaan piped up. "Or rather, we can tell _Ashe_ and she will get a note to Larsa."

"I have my political position to consider," Audipher said dryly, "I'll have to think that out a little. 'Tis not been quite sound of me to offer you solace, brother, and I have to think carefully about how to turn it to my advantage."

Balthier rolled his eyes. "Whatever you wish. I am going to check the Engine." He tried to take a step forward, only to find that Basch's arm was immovable. Pushing irritably at it for a moment, he glanced up at the Judge's benign expression, then, sulkily, back at his brother. "And thank you for all the help."

"No problem, little brother," Audipher grinned, as Basch finally let Balthier go. "You _are_ quite something after all. Has he realized?"

The children giggled, but Basch merely smiled wryly. "Thank you. For hiding him."

"I never did mislike him," Audipher shrugged. "And I never blamed him or his blood for what he became. He had no mother for much of his life and not much of a father. You could say that I feel a little culpable. But in any case," he added, as Vaan seemed to want to object, "Unlike Midian, I can certainly see that Balthier is quite happy as he is. Recent circumstances aside, of course."

"You do not think this journey is quite insane?"

"Of course I do, but that has never stopped Balthier when he has set his mind to a matter," Audipher said amiably. "Better instead to provide him with the means, usually. And he has produced miracles before. So you could say, I certainly trust him a lot more than you do, and I have not seen him till lately for years."

Trust. He certainly had not considered that. "'Tis not a matter of trust," he said, all unthinkingly, and, to his consternation, blushed when Vaan and Penelo laughed.

"Oh, there's nothing between us," Vaan said, in a passable rendition of Basch's gravelly tone.

"Stop teasing him," Feng-Yin chided, but Vaan merely grinned again. "I am glad you are coming. Balthier, at least, already seems the better for it." From the depths of the _Strahl_ came the pirate's acerbic tone demanding who the _hell_ packed a _fucking_ food crate into the engine room.

"Send my regards to Lady Ashe," Basch turned to the children. "And give her this." He handed them an envelope that he had written hastily in his rooms while Balthier had gone through the clothes Audipher had purchased, with the pirate complaining all the while that Basch was _certainly_ not prepared to go on the damn _journey_, and who had been pointedly ignored.

"We will." Penelo took the envelope. "Be careful. We wish we could come."

"You and your _Beiluj_ are needed here, I should think. But if the war starts, hide deep in Dalmasca."

"We _know_," Vaan said, folding his arms behind his head. "But there won't be one, because you're going to stop it, aren't you?"

He wished he had the boy's confidence. "We will."

-tbc-


	13. The untouched sea

"_The Miststorms is the commonly-known name for the roiling, thick clouds of Mist over the oceans connecting Ivalice, the Old Kingdom, Arcano and the Ice Peaks. They are thickest a hundred feet above the ground, and thin closer to the ocean. It is unknown why the Miststorms interfere with radar and glossair engines: airships that have strayed too close often have their engines malfunction, plummeting into the sea. Long-haul sea vessels have crossed the oceans successfully, but it is a journey not often willingly repeated: sailors have given tell of Mist-born maelstroms within which the outlines of monsters can be seen, languidly coiling about one another._"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

13

The untouched sea

They'd said goodbye to sanity in an insufficiently dramatic way, Balthier felt – Penelo had not even shed tears – and the only one in their party who was evidently tense was Basch, as he took the _Strahl_ on course for the edge of the sea.

Behind him, Feng-Yin was trying her best to engage Basch in conversation, over a remarkable array of topics from derivative dialects in Landis to chocobo strains, to which he was giving monosyllabic responses. Balthier didn't need to look back to know the man was likely holding on tightly to the arms of his seat, white knuckled. Basch didn't take very well to flying, tended to be ill during turbulence, and disliked cramped conditions.

_He deserves it_, Balthier thought vengefully. Bloody-minded man. Hopefully he wouldn't be sick in the _Strahl's_ cockpit.

Below, what little passed as civilization in Ranor changed from township to endless cattle lands, then to stretches of broken rock camped tightly at parts with thick fir copses, then a white plain of salt desert edged in the distance by the sea. With the new hyperdrive fitting it should take them two days to reach the Old Kingdom, Balthier estimated, holding due course.

"How will we stay on course?" Basch asked, at that point, his voice a little strained. He deserved it, Balthier reminded himself, certainly after earlier today.

"Luck."

"Balthier," Feng-Yin was probably grinning. She had mostly recovered from Draketongue, Balthier felt, and much of it due to his brother's relentless hospitality. _He_ hadn't been in much of a mood to coddle an officially dead princess, not after Balfonheim. "He modified an old technology method," she explained, when he did not care to. "Using magnetic resonance instead of synchronicity."

"It's less accurate and doesn't work very well near certain parts of our land masses, such as near the Ridhorana," Balthier said, "But we are headed out over the ocean. Besides, we only need an approximate bearing: we shouldn't be able to miss an entire continent."

"I am not reassured," Basch's tone was wry.

"You wanted to come," Balthier reminded him mercilessly. "Apparent suicide otherwise."

"You told me it was safe."

"It _is_ safe. Logically." Balthier added. He smirked, when Basch groaned. There was the sound of a strap, then footsteps receding towards the cabins. Evidently, the Judge-Magister had decided to try and sleep off his stresses.

"It will be an hour before we reach the Miststorms," Fran said then, when a door closed. "Go speak with him. I can pilot the ship until then."

Balthier stared at her, askance. "Speak with him? Why? He wishes to rest. Let him rest."

"You have wronged him. Redress is only just." Fran said simply, keeping her eyes on the panels and the grav screens. "Go."

"_Fran_," Balthier protested, and her long, white ears twitched. She turned to stare at him silently, and he couldn't hold her eyes, turning away, his shoulders hunched. "Fine. I'll talk to him. That will be my redress."

"You are yet a youngling in so many ways," Fran murmured, and ignored him when he directed a glare at her. "Go."

"Oh, very well," Balthier snapped, with ill grace, unbuckling himself and stalking out of the cockpit, pretending not to see Feng-Yin's smile. He had to admit Fran was right, even with all the circumstances – and besides, vengeance aside, he could see that his Viera partner was unwilling to back down on _this_. Strangely enough, for a Viera that engaged in piracy, she had a strong sense of justice (which was admittedly occasionally alien), particularly where it concerned their own actions. And he could never bear the thought of earning her ire.

--

Basch sat up quickly when there was a knock on the door of his cabin. It turned out to be the pirate, whose expression seemed irritable: he kept glancing back at the cockpit, then at Basch himself. He guessed. "Fran?"

"Aye." Balthier shouldered past him into the room. The bottled scent of filtered air was crisp, almost stale, and the pirate's gunpowder-metal musk seemed stronger in the confined space. Basch let out a breath, and, with some hesitation, closed the door.

"Feeling better?" the pirate asked, without looking around.

Out of habit, Basch had taken 'his' old cabin, the borrowed bag of borrowed clothes tucked neatly under the narrow bunk. He felt somewhat off-balance again, as though he had come full circle: just as it had been, seemingly so long ago, the clothes on his shoulders and what he possessed were none of them _his_. Gabranth's armor had been left in Audipher's safe keeping, though he had kept his brother's blades by his side, hung against the door. It felt as though he had shed a role for an old one, and had to smile.

"A little."

"Mm. Fran was concerned," Balthier said, and sat down on the bed, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back against the hull. "You used to be quite ill at ease in the air, if we recall."

"I prefer the ground," Basch admitted, torn between sitting down as well at the bed or staying put. He settled for the chair by the small bolted desk. "Thanks for checking on me."

Balthier raised an eyebrow. "Thanking another for common courtesies merely makes you seem pathetic, old man."

"Sorry," Basch said, but he smiled. Balthier stared at him oddly for a moment, then the irritation on his face seemed to ebb – he sighed, noisily, and patted the bed beside him.

"Come here."

"Um." Basch hesitated, then sat down, at a respectable distance: he stiffened for a moment as the pirate simply leaned against him, chin against his shoulder, wiry arms going about his waist. The sudden weight pushed him off balance – Basch fell onto his side against the bed with a huff of surprise, arms flailing out for balance. There was a low laugh from the pirate, who had taken the opportunity to wriggle upwards and settle on top of him like a large, heavy cat.

Basch enjoyed the unfamiliar, warm intimacy for as long as he could before the weight turned crushing, and carefully rolled them onto their flanks, pulling Balthier up against him, suddenly unsure. The pirate made an inarticulate sound, against his chest, then began to stroke his back, petting.

"Tell me about Landis."

Startled, Basch frowned for a moment. He began to talk about the war, stopped himself, and smiled instead, into the scent of gunpowder. "I was born in the Ronsenburg _Stadtviertel_, chocobo country. Twins, just after the New Year. _Schicksalhaft kinder_…"

--

Fran didn't look up when Balthier reentered the cockpit, though her ears flicked back, then forward, questioning. He'd long learned to read her: Viera language was only partially verbal, and if he could not understand her musical, ancient tongue at least he could, after all these years, mostly understand the rest.

"Where's the girl?" he asked. Feng-Yin was nowhere to be seen.

"Her cabin." Fran's feral eyes were fixed on the horizon, on the roiling golden smudge that sat over the blue. The Miststorms. Balthier checked the latitude on the grav, then the radar, before settling down and buckling in. They were almost upon the ocean, after which it would be half of an hour before they reached the edges of the wild Mist.

"Basch is sleeping," Balthier switched to manual, stroked his fingers into the well-worn grooves of the triggers, settled into the embrace of old leather. The _Strahl_ shifted easily and lovingly into his control, as Fran changed to co-P, brought up the assist grav.

Long white ears flickered back a little further – _now_ Fran was curious, likely because she could not smell Basch on him. "Sleeping."

"Aye. We spoke a little, then I let him rest. Better he sleeps through the transition." Basch had been tired, but the rambling monologue had taken time to cede to slumber. The pirate hadn't been _that_ curious about Basch's childhood, but it had relaxed the other man, just to talk; and besides, he liked Basch's voice, had liked listening to it turn softer and huskier as sleep took him. "He misses his brother more than he would admit."

"You are concerned." Fran hardly ever asked questions that she did not already know the answer to; instead, she would guess at his thoughts. It was a Viera way of conversation between companions, the _ruanaie_, or the sharing of like minds, more ritual than much else, meant to deepen and strengthen a pairing. Usually he found it stimulating.

Today, however, it simply felt as though Fran was attempting to pick his mind, and it took a little effort to dampen his instinctive irritation. Balthier nodded slowly. "He should not have come."

"But you are glad that he has."

Balthier shook his head. "I doubt that. The Judge is a complication."

"But he is not here as Judge." Fran was far more adept at _ruanaie_ than he was, Balthier thought ruefully; for all that he was her first _Jyirn_, the first soul-pairing, as alien and quaint as the customs and beliefs of the Viera were. "And you are intrigued."

"He may be something more than a blind follower of his so-called honor code," Balthier allowed.

Children of fate, indeed, born after the New Year's: Basch's family had thought he and Gabranth the catalysts of change, and had turned out to be right. Some, Balthier felt, a little amused, would have been content to be the catalyst of _one_ major world-changing event, but it seemed Basch was well on his way to participate in a third.

"The bell tower."

"What about it?" Sounding innocent never threw off Fran, but it was useful for stalling. It had been the bell tower, not the half-remembered repeated superstition, of course. Right again. Balthier tried to counterattack (it wasn't a _battle_ or a _competition_, Fran had often stressed, but Balthier felt that thinking of it as mere conversation or a sharing of minds made _ruanaie_ less entertaining than it really was). "_You_ are concerned."

"Aye."

"You think, like the last time, I will simply use him. Well, you are right. I am." Balthier said, sounding as flippant as he could. "But do bear in mind _he_ insisted on coming along."

"But you like him."

"I like many people." And he was fencing now, Balthier knew, he was 'losing', if his responses turned evasive, but Fran's comment felt uncomfortably close to the mark, as odd as that seemed. Balthier liked people, liked their eccentricities and strange little behaviors, their predictable ways. He liked people as… _people_. But there were a very small few that he found interesting enough to like as _persons_, and Basch was inching closer. Perhaps.

"It would take much more than a life story and dogged persistence to make that statement significant, my dear." Fran's ears twitched forward. And there was an easy point available in this game, to read, as much as it wasn't flattering. "You think me young and foolish."

The Viera smiled faintly at that. "Almost always, _a'chere_."

"And," this was a wild guess, "You are more worried about the Miststorms than even all my pestering to date has actually told me." Fran didn't answer, and Balthier grinned. "It's been safe in all the test flights. You were on all of them."

"The longest we flew was an hour. We will be flying a few days. Deeper into the Mist-"

"I find it very hard to believe there would be giant monsters or whatever you say, so far off the shore. Where would they sleep? On the inconstant ocean?"

"The Viera believe that from what Humes call the Miststorms, all life began." Fran was staring at the growing smudge on the horizon. "Who knows now what it has birthed? But you are young and foolish, and you care not but for adventure."

"_Humes_," Balthier mimicked a tone of resignation. "_A'chere_, there would be no other way to reach the Old Kingdom save to somehow hijack one of their Gates, and that would have ended us in the middle of an enemy camp."

"I understand your reasons."

"But to a Viera, foolishness is alien and youth is a distant memory?" Balthier asked playfully. Fran's dark mood was affecting him, as attuned to her as he was.

"No. We are not alien to that, at least." Fran smiled. "Or I would have never met you."

--

Basch woke up abruptly when the _Strahl_ lurched heavily to the right, and he hit his head against the hull. He sat up, gasping, and for a panicked, heart-stopping moment thought his feet were restrained, that he was back in the darkness under Nalbina – then the glossair-powered light flickered back. He pulled his feet free of the blanket that Balthier had probably covered him with, and rubbed his eyes.

The pirate had probably left once he had fallen asleep – his scent on the sheets was faint – but not without first removing Basch's boots. He wasn't sure how he had slept through that: either he felt safe in the _Strahl_, or he had been too exhausted, but it made him smile: it was an easy intimacy that made him feel oddly warm, even though he _knew_ the pirate had likely meant nothing by it; for all Basch knew, Balthier simply hadn't wanted the hassle of cleaning up mud-stained sheets. It was charity. Balthier's manner had told him that clearly enough. Whatever had happened in the bell tower, the pirate was now too caught up in his own problems to pay much else any heed; would not even have come to look in on Basch without his partner's urging.

Which was fair, Basch allowed. But _after_… and what? He was now a Judge-Magister. Balthier was a pirate. The sheer storybook absurdity of their conflicting roles made him wonder if this was some sort of divine joke. Surely people as they did not ever, save in theatre, associate to the tune of this melody, and all to the background of a war: it would make good plot, Basch thought, somewhat cynically, if it hadn't been so ludicrously coincidental to date.

Still, unlike his brother, Basch was not one given to brooding, so he laced his boots, trying not to think about how badly the _Strahl_ seemed to be flying, as though it was skimming cresting waves, then straightened carefully against the hull, adjusted his shirt, and unshuttered the cabin's porthole.

--

Balthier had calmed down enough to feel amused at the situation when Basch all but burst into the cockpit. "Oh, you woke up."

"Balthier, there are-"

"I know." Balthier gestured. From the steelglass outside, it seemed as though the _Strahl_ had dived into a golden ocean. Mist sleeted past as they flew in hyperdrive, their radar long dead and the grav screens flickering. Occasionally, as they would in the thick Mist they had encountered in salika or in catacombs, he could see mirages of an approaching _Strahl_, or his face, flickering onto gold and then slipping away the next.

Keeping up effortlessly beside them was a school of fish, each as long as Basch was tall, sleek and silver, with long, sail-like fins.

"We are in hyperdrive," Basch said dumbly. He recognized the pale slipstreams over the sleek orange metal. "And they are fish."

"Both completely self-evident statements. Thank you." Balthier drawled, swallowing the bubble of hysterical laughter. Distant cousins – sorry, probably distant _ancestors_ of the fish occasionally seen floating _on_ the beaches at the Phon Coasts, or during wet season in the deserts, probably. Larger. Pale gold, likely to blend with Mist. And shockingly fast.

Also, they hit one just now, which had caused the lurch, and hopefully nothing difficult to clean off the keel afterwards.

"On the other hand," he added, as he heard Basch groan and strap himself down, "I've been thinking, since Fran is evidently right about monsters that live in the Mist… do you think any of them would be big enough to try and eat _us_?"

There was a strained silence.

"Thank _you_, Balthier. I think I feel so much better about our predicament now," Basch said. Fran's ears twitched.

"I try."

"Surely the _Strahl_ has armaments."

"Indeed it does," Balthier said cheerfully, feeling his vengeful mood returning, a side-effect from the stress of having been previously blindsided by what had looked like a massive spiky rainbow trout, "But if you recall, airships have to disengage from hyperdrive in order to utilize their weaponry, particularly since the _Strahl_'s Markos cannons are glossair energy and keeping in hyperdrive, let alone hyperdrive in this Mist, uses a different grade of synchronicity. Big fish might be slow, and disengaging might prove to be far more a problem than it is worth."

"You're enjoying this," Basch accused, sounding aggrieved as he did so.

"Quite so. I want to know how those fish," Balthier jerked a thumb at their 'companions', "Can keep up with us. Perhaps on the return journey we should stop and catch a few."

"If we survive to a return journey," Basch murmured. He wasn't his best on an airship, Balthier thought wickedly. The poor Magister sounded a little ill.

"Of course we would. And perhaps take a longer route. I would quite like to explore the Miststorms. We should have taken an iconograph with us."

Fran glances at him, only for a moment, but he reads her warning, and turns back to the flickering grav screens with a little pout. He has no idea what _she_ sees in Basch, really: he was, after all, still not particularly an interesting _person _(yet, whispers the little thought), as fun as it might be to bed a Magister and indeed relieve some of the stress he had been under for the last half-year. Left to himself, without the matter of Balfonheim, Feng-Yin, and Draketongue, Balthier told himself he certainly would not have been so affected as he had been in the tower, where he had been content with kisses, every kiss like raw honey, had been left breathless and pouting when Basch kept his hands firmly above the belt.

Thinking of _that_ made him even less inclined to be considerate. Balthier disliked attempts to string him along, particularly if they were amateurish, particularly if they _worked_. Damn Basch and his bloody-minded stubbornness. Why didn't he…

"Balthier," Fran murmured, and he looked over at her sharply, then hastily composed himself when an ear flicked back. Caught out, he pulled his eyes back to the steelglass cockpit, then to their compass.

"T'would be a couple of days or so of flying, as I said. Perhaps you should spend most of it sleeping," Balthier said, not quite conciliatorily, but not quite unkindly. "There are books in my cabin if you wish to read."

That should distract the man to Fran's satisfaction. He waved a hand absently at Basch's thank-you, then chuckled, when Feng-Yin burst into the cockpit.

"Balthier, there are-"

"Yes, yes, fish," Balthier said, amused at the déjà vu.

"Fish? I know there are fish! We have… what is the word in your language for it… _stowaways_."

"Stowaways?" Balthier repeated, then a thought occurred to him. Those two damn brats had been far too easily agreeable, come to think of it…

Basch laughed, when Balthier turned around to see Feng-Yin, her hands tightly clasped on the shoulders of two very sheepish-looking children. "Um." Vaan said, then smiled as ingratiatingly as he could, as the other pirate's eyes narrowed. "Don't be angry. Please?"

"Bloody… Fran, can we chuck them overboard?"

-tbc-


	14. The Counterweight Energy

"_In _The Counterweight Energy_, Professor Athel Harbal posits the theory that magic and technological development are equal and opposite forces: the stronger one is in the populace, the less advanced the other will be. Prior to the Cultural Exchange, the Old Kingdom was strongly saturated in magic, and perhaps as yet had not even as yet discovered the flight capacity of the glossair engine. It is believed that the arrival of the _Strahl_ in the Old Kingdom caused its very first witnesses to think a dragon had emerged from over the ocean…_"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

14

The Counterweight Energy

"We could be helpful," Penelo said, no doubt sensing that Balthier was giving up to inevitability. Basch was careful to keep his expression blank – the pirate was obviously furious, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed: then he sighed.

"Brats. I should have known. And we might not have enough of the refined three-core magicite to turn back now." Balthier caught Basch's raised eyebrow, and smiled, if grudgingly. "No need to look so worried, Basch. We have enough of the three-core for two trips: there and back. There wasn't much of it stored in Draklor, and new supplies would have taken time to refine."

"Actually we didn't think of stowing away until you took Basch with you," Vaan piped up then, and then hastily took a step back when Balthier's expression darkened further. "We're glad you did!"

"Explain," Balthier snapped.

"Well, we thought it was expediency or something that you only wanted to take Fran and Feng-Yin, but Basch would be pretty hard to disguise, so if you took him along no doubt _we_ could come too," Vaan reasoned, in logic that only Vaan could devise and believe.

Balthier was rubbing at the bridge of his nose, taking what looked like slow breaths. "And Penelo, you _agreed_?"

"I wanted to come." Penelo said, with a faint hint of defiance. "We're your _friends_ and we wanted to help. And besides," she added, when Balthier sighed again, "It's almost like old times, isn't it?"

"One princess and a pack of five disorganized hangers-on?" Balthier drawled, but he smiled. "Reluctantly, it seems I have to rethink my determination to throw the both of you overboard."

"We can do shifts with you and Fran too," Vaan said, looking relieved that the other pirate no longer seemed particularly irate. "It'll be a long flight and don't tell me you intended to be at the cockpit all the time. Four people taking shifts wouldn't be so tiring."

"You can stop convincing me that the both of you brats are useful," Balthier said dryly. "Because _a'chere_ will never let me hear the end of it were I to act on impulse and make good on throwing you overboard, in any case."

Basch had never heard _that_ word before from Balthier. An endearment, evidently, from the way Fran inclined her head faintly in acknowledgment. It seemed the children had, and Feng-Yin: they merely laughed, and the easy camaraderie made Basch feel a little uncomfortable, like a spectator, but after all, he'd only just met Balthier again; and even before that, had never lived even remotely similar lives. _A'chere_.

It occurred to him, uncomfortably, that he had also never asked about the nature of Balthier's relationship with Fran.

Thinking, he almost missed Balthier's next words. "Vaan, take over for a spiel. Penelo, take an inventory of the stores." When she looked as though she would protest, Balthier added irritably, "We have food for _four_. Now we are six."

"Will that be a problem?" Basch frowned.

"Probably not, since we stocked for the return trip as well, I believe," Feng-Yin murmured. "We can restock further in the Old Kingdom to make up for the stores we use."

The Old Kingdom girl seemed amused only, as she let the children go and strapped herself into the seat and took a slim volume from the sleeve of her robes. At his inquiring glance, she held it up – it was the script of a play that he didn't recognize: _Fifth Kingdom_, by one Milthon Rase. "Balthier's cabin," she elaborated.

"I'll show you," Balthier said, at Basch's glance, getting up from his seat and motioning for Vaan to take over.

--

Balthier's cabin was stacked with shelves of books on its hullside wall, save for a small space for the porthole, the shelves with small rails meant to keep the volumes in place during turbulence. There seemed to be no order whatsoever to the books that Basch could discern: technomancy sat with poetry and fiction and vellum scrolls that looked like theological theses. The sole table in the room was bolted down to the center, with a similar bolted bench, salika oak, upon which some room had been cleared for a scroll of a map of the world, held in place by a brass quadrant and a sextant. Other scrolls and tomes littered the rest of the table and parts of the floor, even the bunk.

It was those that Balthier cleared, via picking them up and dumping them on the ground, then pulling off his boots and settling on the sheets, arms folded behind his head, closing his eyes. "Close the door when you're done."

Basch couldn't help but smile, but he walked to the shelves, scanning them for a moment, then – and he couldn't quite help himself on this either – began to pick up, first the books on the chairs, stacking them onto the few remaining empty shelves, then the scrolls. He had just reached those at Balthier's bunk when he realized the pirate was watching him.

"You are worse than Fran," Balthier said, looking amused, as Basch shrugged and began stacking the books on the ground.

"She picks up after you?"

"Sometimes. When she can't stand it anymore. Viera tend to be fairly neat. I have to admit 'tis a habit that has never taken, with me."

Basch paused when cool fingers tipped up his chin, and didn't open his mouth for the kiss pressed against his lips. When Balthier pulled away, the pirate flopped back onto his bunk, arms again behind his head. "Still thinking about Fran?"

"A little," Basch admitted reluctantly.

"One of _those_," Balthier murmured, the comment making him arch his eyebrow in inquiry. "If you were only interested in a little bit of fun on the side, Magister, you would not be curious about Fran." When Basch didn't reply, he added, a little slyly, "I saw your expression change, when I called her _a'chere_. It means best-beloved. In her tongue."

He was being baited.

"I could guess at the meaning," Basch didn't meet his eyes, reaching under the bunk for a scroll that had rolled under it. And that you had _meant_ it, he added, silently. He recalled what Balthier had said to him in Draketongue, half a year ago: _her choice makes mine_ – he had been easily willing to die with Fran, if she so chose. "I find myself a little surprised."

"Surprised?"

"That someone like yourself…" Basch faltered, as Balthier's expression abruptly seemed unreadable. "I mean no offense, but-"

"Perhaps I loved her before I became a cynic, and it lasted," Balthier said, only half playfully. "But we are not intimate, if that is what concerns you. Different species. Viera physiology and desires are nowhere similar to Humes."

"Oh."

"Relieved?" There was a barb in that question, Basch was sure of it, but he couldn't lie.

"A little." It didn't change that fact that it was obvious that Balthier _loved_ Fran, far more than as a friend, and whatever the nature of their partnership was, it made him… jealous. He would admit _that_ to himself, at the very least.

"It's true that the nature of the pairing doesn't often allow itself very well to either side finding any others, when one of the halves is non-Viera, that is. I still do not know how Viera procreate. 'Tis a secret, it seems." The pirate's tone was distant. "But Fran likes _you_."

"She does?" Basch hadn't noticed anything of the sort, in the Viera's attitude.

"Believe me, she likes very few Humes. That makes me curious about you, at the very least."

Balthier patted the narrow space beside him on the bed. With some hesitation, Basch removed his boots, and lay down next to the pirate on his flank. At an amused "So stiff now?" he pulled Balthier into his arms, then rolled over atop him, keeping his weight on his elbows as he kissed him. The pirate purred, wrapping his arms around his neck and his thighs over his waist, opening his mouth willingly enough.

"But what do _you_ want?" Basch finally managed to ask, when they broke briefly for air. "Something casual?"

"Can it be anything else?" Balthier smile was lopsided. "Judge-Magister."

_All too easily_, Basch felt, but settled for more kisses instead of dredging up uncomfortable answers. It was something he desperately only wished to consider _afterwards_, as clever hands deftly divested him of his shirt and belt before he realized, wrapped in Balthier's scent, his low, inviting purrs and the delicious way his hips arched against _his_, the taste of a soft tongue stroking around his own. Basch gasped, catching fingers that had crept down to the hem of his breeches, looked up to see, to his surprise, an expression of mute pleading written clearly on flushed features and parted, swollen lips.

"Let me," Balthier whispered, and as Basch hesitated until palm slipped down further, rubbed him firmly and surely between his thighs, made him _moan_. He pushed into the warm pressure, growled, felt Balthier shiver under him at the rumble and whisper, more urgently, "_Let me_."

"I did not-"

"I know," Balthier cut off his protest by squeezing the swelling tent in his breeches. "You can fuck me in Leicheng, whatever, whenever you want. But let me taste you _now_."

The hunger in Balthier's voice took Basch by surprise, and he allowed himself to be rolled onto his back, his elbow barking against the cold hull, levering himself up onto his arms to watch as the pirate pulled down his breeches, enough to draw out hardening flesh. He gasped at the first, curious lick over the tip, biting hard on his lip as Balthier stroked him impatiently to arousal before easing down the folds of foreskin.

"Impressive, old man," Balthier said, though the playful humor in his voice was obviously edged with lust, and the pirate's smirk was lascivious as he settled down over Basch's thighs and helped him tug off his breeches. "Do I truly have to wait until Leicheng to have this inside me?"

He flushed at the salacious words, unable to think of how, _what_, to reply, felt Balthier's low laugh as hot breath tickling the underside of his need, and arched with another gasp as hot fingers cupped his balls, tickled past to rub at the soft skin beyond. It was just opportunity on Balthier's part, he knew, it didn't mean anything more than that _Basch_ so happened to be the most convenient method at hand to relieve the pirate's stress, but as Balthier wrapped his lips around the fleshy head of his prick, purred, and _sucked_, Basch could only whimper. "Aah!"

Balthier grinned at that, mouthed over the tip, and this time, when he sucked, Basch felt the faint pressure of scraping teeth, that made his breath choke in his throat and his balls tighten, _felt_ Balthier laugh again as he drew back to lap him, long, slow, wet strokes of the tongue to slick him for callused palms. Basch had his fingers curled tight in the cotton sheets, unable to pull his eyes away as he watched his throbbing need sink slowly into Balthier's wet mouth, one hand pumping him gently while the ringed hand kept a steady pressure on a thigh, keeping it splayed. Hypersensitive, he could feel the effect of every flick of the pirate's clever tongue on his flesh, every muted purr, as spikes of ecstasy that fought his control, coiled his own lust heavy and insistent in his belly, made every breath labored and shallow.

The pirate took his time sinking down to his limit, his free hand shifting to Basch's hip to keep him in place, his features drawn into a little frown of concentration (so adorable) as he drew himself up, then back down; and again, this time with a humming moan; _again_, this time with teeth, and Basch's breathing was hitching – he was already so close; could feel the fabric of his shirt sticking uncomfortably to him with his sweat.

"_Please_," he was whispering, babbling, almost, "Please, oh, _Gods-_yes, _Balthier_…" and at that, he saw Balthier move his free hand again, this time down to his own breeches, pulling them impatiently down past his hips with a jerk, stroking himself, and the thought of _Balthier_ getting off from what he was doing to Basch shattered the rest of his fragile control.

Basch sank his teeth into his arm to stifle his cry, as tremors shook him, shattered him, leaving him panting and boneless on the bunk as Balthier drew back, turned his head to spit onto the sheets. That broke the spell, and he sat up a little shakily. "I'll… I'll help you with-"

Balthier grinned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, breathless and in delicious dishabille, leaning back against the corner of the wall with his cock in his hands, and Basch grit his teeth as his only just sated prick twitched at the sight. "Would you now."

And he growled, as the pirate's taunting snapped something within him, felt a hot wash of almost-anger within him that he could not identify – he forced numbing muscle to move, crowding Balthier up against the wall, tried not to think about the pert rump pressed over his thighs, and kissed the other man, licking into him and closing a hand over Balthier's fingers. His question sounded harsh to his ears, against Balthier's lips. "Are you clean?"

He saw the pirate's eyes widen, as he slipped his other hand down to rub against his puckered opening, then Balthier purred, "Not going to wait after all?"

"I can wait," Basch affirmed roughly, though he was not quite so sure on that point, with Balthier pressed so intimately now against him, so warm and pliant and _desirable_. "But I am not so sure about _you_."

"Cocky bastard," Balthier said, though his tone was greedy, as he watched Basch dip his fingers into his own spilled seed on the sheets.

--

The kids and the princess had gone to sleep by the time Balthier cleaned himself up and went back to the cockpit; he'd left Basch sleeping in the cabin. Soiled sheets could be a problem, Balthier thought, as he settled a little gingerly into his seat, not that he didn't have spares but…

Fran nodded at him as he brought up the grav screen. Viera needed far less sleep than Humes, but he was still concerned. "Did you rest?"

"Penelo took over for some time." Fran sniffed, then an ear flicked back, as she turned her eyes back to the nav. "You are discontent?"

"The man's more like his brother than he lets on, just that his inner bastard is buried deeper," Balthier muttered.

He had been pulled into Basch's lap, his back against the Magister's chest; somehow the damned son of a bitch had bound his hands with Basch's belt, and then proceeded to toy with his cock _and_ fingerfuck him, until Balthier had been begging and writhing against him. It was only when he ran out of words had Basch allowed him to come. And was now blithely asleep. On his bed. As though he belonged there. _Bastard_.

"They are twins." Fran shrugged, though she sounded amused. "Besides, you like him."

"Do tell," Balthier said sourly. "If by so saying you wish to point out that I was probably loud enough to be heard even here."

"You provoked him." Amusement.

"He was _supposed_ to respond as Basch, not as _Gabranth_." _Fucking tease_.

"But he is Gabranth." Fran said, and that was just one of the Viera's way of speech that occasionally annoyed Balthier, that could seem both cryptic and bloody _stupid_ and which was just Hell to reply to in a dignified way.

"You thought… you _knew_ this would happen."

"Mayhap it did happen because he knows this as the best way to retain your attention." And Fran was correct again. Balthier had been considering the possibility that, consciously or not, Basch was _reacting_ to him, so subtly that he barely noticed until he was already intrigued, carefully keeping his attention one step at a time.

"I think such calculation is a little beyond him. As do you. The damn thing about Leicheng is bloody _amateurish _for sticks and carrots."

"And yet you allow it of him." Fran regarded him with her feral eyes for a moment, her shoulders slightly hunched, ears drawn back – the Viera version of laughing out loud.

"There isn't anyone else-"

"But you did not wish him to come in the first place." Fran was in good form today, Balthier felt, with a sigh. "And now you allow him to lead you."

"What are you…" Balthier began, then reshaped his words for the _ruanaie_. "You think me besotted? I can assure you 'tis not the case."

"I can hear your heartbeat," Fran said, flicking one ear at him in emphasis. "It quickens beside him. Have you noticed?"

"No," Balthier said sullenly, who indeed had not. Damn Viera and their sense of hearing. "So I want him. 'Tis evident enough. I want to know why _you_ like him. You've not bothered yourself before with those I take abed."

"Because _you_ like him. Despite what he is, who he is."

"The man's fairly handsome-"

"Docile," Fran said, with a faint smile. "A walking weapon. A Knight, bound to duty." _He should bore you. Should he not?_

And – gods damn it again – she was _right_. Basch should bore him, inner bastard streak aside. Balthier did not understand it at all, and that vexed him sorely, that he was indeed allowing Basch to _lead_, being pliable, being the _docile one_. It irked him, made him feel like he was groping for control rather than being the leading man, as it were. And all this Basch did so easily, so smoothly, that Balthier wasn't sure if it was instinctive, or if the man was far more canny than anyone gave him credit for.

And indeed, _gods-damn_, but it was intriguing.

"You find far too few people who are mental puzzles," Fran said. The Viera smiled, when he blinked, and conceded the point with a wry smile in return. She'd won this round conclusively, after all, Balthier thought, rubbing his eyes.

-tbc-


	15. This madness, that

[A/N: Insert several random encounters in Miststorms, lol! At first I didn't want to write anything further about it, but then the build up would have been anti-climatic. But then I didn't want to spend yet _another_ chapter in it… RE: Tech level: I am raising it high enough for contacts. And re Feng-yin's name, it seems the capitalization is inconsistent. Reverting back to older fic style.

"_Combat fighter airships of the _Strahl's_ size tended only to have storage and sleeping facilities, but the dual-wing design, despite making the original ship too bulky to be agile in the air, made it possible for the airship to be modified extensively so as to include separate cabins, a small living space with a kitchenette, freezer storage and shower facilities._"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

15

This madness, that

It was several hours into the second day, with Balthier piloting and Basch reading a book in the passenger's seat, keeping quiet company, that they encountered the sky-kings: the children and the Princess had rushed to the cockpit, white-faced and excited, followed by Fran.

What had looked like a strange cloud bank in the distance was sharpening, closer and closer in hyperdrive, as the underside of a massive centipede that stretched further than the eye could see, buried in the mist, each massive segment twice as long as the _Strahl_, each lazily waving, scythe-like leg ribbed with long, diaphanous multicolored sails.

"It means we are closer to the Old Kingdom than we think," Feng-yin said finally, into the tense silence. Basch, in particular, had rubbed his eyes a few times, as though trying to rid himself of a hallucination.

"Why do you think so?" Balthier had to admit he was fascinated. How did so massive a creature stay aloft? Visual feeds from the _Strahl_'s limited scopic focus showed dilating pores set along the middle of each earth-brown segment, breathing, or perhaps, breathing _Mist_, distilling pure, raw magic. Smaller, silvery, eel-like creatures, about the length of a man, seemed to pick at each pore, parasites, perhaps. _Gods, for some of his father's telescopic observation equipment…_

"Because that is a _tien wang lei_, a sky king," Feng-yin looked to her left, then the right. "They live deep in what you call the Miststorms, but much closer to the Old Kingdom, I think, if you have never heard of them. Sometimes the carcasses of the young ones wash ashore, when they are not yet of a size to no longer fear predators. I have seen one as long as… as long as the breadth of the Draketongue Manse."

"A-maz-ing," Vaan breathed, all but pressed up against the glass of the co-pilot's seat, until Fran gently pushed him away and settled into place. "What do they eat?"

"The younglings have fangs, for protection. But I have never seen an old one. They eat magic, it is thought. Pure magic. Some believe that the reason why Humes can live on the Old Kingdom is because of the _tien wang_, as they eat enough of the raw magic around my country that what eventually filters out into the Kingdom is of a manageable saturation."

"Just to be safe, I'm taking us lower, out of reach of those legs," Balthier decided, fighting down the lingering sense of revulsion and mild hysteria. _A massive centipede floating in the sky_. Not for the first time he wondered if they were all already crazy: Fran did not look bothered in the least, the children were merely excited, plying Feng-yin with more questions about her memory of the carcasses she had seen, and Basch had already returned to his book. And, Gods, each time he thought the world was becoming a little more predictable, it surprised him all over again. Perhaps when he finished this business he should fly south, further, to other kingdoms, see more of the world than what he was told.

But they were close to the Old Kingdom then, Balthier thought grimly, as they sped under the rippling shadow of the worm. _Soon_.

--

Balthier had brought the _Strahl_ down the coastline to a secluded stretch of beach, within the shadow of a cliff, switching it into stealth before briefing them in the commons room, leaning against the central circular table and patting a few large boxes that he had dragged up from the stores.

"We are going to try and pass as performers," he began by saying, rapping his knuckles on one of the boxes. "No doubt Penelo can come up with something if we absolutely have to perform something at some point, but chances are we will not have to. Our cover is that we are travelers from _Xincheng_, and Feng-yin over there is our manager."

"But if we say anything won't they notice our accent?" Penelo asked. "And would the clothes fit?"

"That's why we won't be saying much at all. Feng-yin will handle things. We don't intend to enter any townships, just head to _Leicheng_, once we find out where on the coast we actually are." Balthier scratched idly at his chin. "I'm fairly sure we should be in the approximate area, about a couple of days from _Leicheng._ There was a village up ahead, Fran will accompany Feng-yin there and they will make inquiries. As to the clothes..." Balthier shrugged. "You can make alterations if you wish."

"The rest of us are to wait here until they return?" Basch frowned. "That does not sound too-"

"Safe? I do not think the outlying villages are _that_ much of a problem." Balthier glanced at Feng-yin, who nodded.

"The coastal villages are not run by Magistrate but by village council," Feng-yin said softly. She seemed weary, a little pale, eyes reddened and hollowed from lack of sleep, her lips thinned in determination. "Performers should not draw trouble."

" 'Should not'," Basch repeated doubtfully. "I still do not think it safe. And as a performing _group_ no doubt we should go together."

"I agree," Vaan piped up. "I mean, if we get this far and then lose both Feng-Yin and Fran to um, the authorities, it'll be serious trouble. And none of the rest of us can speak their language. If we go, we should all go."

Balthier shrugged. "Then we have to spend an extra day while the rest of us get used to our disguises. Feng-yin and Fran wouldn't have needed to, with the mask to Fran."

"Better later than safe." Penelo agreed with Vaan. Basch nodded, and with some hesitation, Balthier looked to Fran, who flicked an ear. The pirate sighed.

"Fine. Here's the first thing everyone needs to do: dye their hair black. And then you'll all have to start getting used to wearing colored lenses."

"And you will be happy to help Basch with the first, I wager," Penelo said. Under Balthier's sudden glare, both children assumed identical expressions of pure innocence. "As a friend, no doubt."

"Brats," Balthier muttered.

--

"The problem with you, old man, is _this_." Balthier teeth followed his sideburns down to his chin. They were both clad only in breeches, and somewhere along Balthier helping him dye his hair Basch had ended up seated on a stool in the washing facilities in the _Strahl_ with Balthier straddling his lap.

"I can shave," Basch murmured, nuzzling Balthier's cheek until the pirate turned to give him access to his lips. His hands had wandered down from stroking a tanned back to cup Balthier's rump, pressing the pirate's hips against his. He almost wanted to apologize for being rough the other night, had he not noticed that Balthier's attitude to him appeared to have changed subtly: there was a curiosity in his regard that had only been there but seldom, before. Basch didn't want to hope.

"Not quite enough, I think." Balthier was petting the sideburns now, almost regretfully. Basch grinned. "Come half the day by and there'll go your disguise."

"You like them."

A very brief pout, then a smirk. "So I do. I rather miss Basch's face. Gabranth's is a little naked."

Balthier looked odd with dark hair, Basch felt, as he shrugged and nibbled at an ear, felt the pirate purr against him as he mouthed over the earrings, rasped teeth briefly over the stud. The smell of soap and the slightly acrid dye almost disguised Balthier's own natural, spicy scents, which he chased with brushing kisses down his neck, tonguing over the fading, reddened bite marks on his shoulders left from the other day. There was a low, husky laugh from the pirate as he sucked lightly over one. "We're monopolizing the bathroom."

"We have a day," Basch replied blithely, and nipped. A soft gasp. "And 'tis not like any of the others would notice." They had last left the children enjoying themselves in the commons room, trying on different contacts and disguises from Balthier's large collection of odds and ends. For some strange reason it proved to be an endless source of hilarity for themselves and the Old Kingdom girl.

"I may bore quickly of kisses," Balthier warned, though he bared his throat, tilting his chin up, for lips to brush his skin, shuddered as a tongue rasped against the hollow of his throat. "_Oh_."

"What do you suggest?" Basch squeezed the firm flesh in his palms experimentally, laughed as the pirate wriggled, sandaled feet pushing against the deck as long fingers tightened over his shoulders. He pulled Balthier closer, higher, felt the brand of heat straining against leather on his belly, closed his lips briefly over a nipple, _bit_, then lapped over it when the pirate arched and moaned.

"Oh, you know what I want, old man," Balthier's voice was a seductive, velvety purr, as he reached down to press fingers briefly against the swell in Basch's own breeches. "Is it truly about what _I_ want?"

"Not yet," Basch agreed, allowing the pirate to settle back in his lap, grinding up against him, the friction frustrating, confining. He had never felt like this with another partner before in his life (and that, Basch would admit, if with a smile, might be rather sad), not this hot, possessive desire that turned him almost into another person altogether, made him rougher where he wanted to be gentle, scheming when he wanted to be honest. But then he _knew_ he would already have bored Balthier were he gentle, straightforward, and he recoiled instinctively against that, felt… _Gods_, it seemed as though he was already in far too deep, and so quickly, past seemingly adolescent infatuation. Days before it felt inevitable that he would eventually lose Balthier's interest. Now the thought of it awakened the vein of stubbornness within him that had refused to give under torture, under the overwhelming odds of Imperial opposition, and he didn't know _why_. Ronsenburgs, however, could be patient.

He'd been distracted, thinking: Balthier had noticed the inattention, and was grinning impishly at him, nipping at his lip. "Thinking?"

"I do that at times," Basch said dryly, taking the kiss as offered, then another, _tasting_ him. Now he was aware what he wanted, what had (in part, perhaps) driven him to forsake given roles and follow the pirate over the sea, that had made him obsess more about consequences than process.

"Mm. Want to share?"

"Do you keep oils in the bathroom?" Basch asked as idly as he could, even as he rolled his hips up against Balthier. He _wanted_ Balthier – it was worse as he watched the pirate's eyes darken, watched him smile slowly, coyly, lick his lips. But he could wait.

"I may," Balthier purred. "But are you going to be a tease?"

"Does it matter?"

And _there_, that flare of interest, that the pirate was quick to stifle. "Of course. I want-"

"You just want something inside you," Basch growled against Balthier's ear. Such gutter speech did not come easily to him, and he was already beginning to blush, but Basch noticed they had an immediate effect on the pirate, whose breathing hitched, as he rubbed his fingers pointedly against the cleft of that pert rump. "Were fingers not sufficient the other night?" Balthier seemed speechless – there was no answer – and Basch added, trying to keep his voice steady, "And I wish to taste _you_ as well."

Still no answer. Perhaps that had been a little over the top. Basch hesitated, considered apologizing, then let out a startled sound as Balthier all but pounced, kissing him savagely, growling and rolling his hips hard against his own, almost frenzied; Basch had to lean forward, brace his weight on his feet to keep from overbalancing back, silently cursing drying dye as he forced his fingers away from Balthier's hair, kept them curled on his shoulders, splayed at the small of his back.

"That is a 'yes'?" he asked, in the space of a breath between them, felt the pirate smile against his lip and bite him over the lobe of his ear.

"Definitely a yes," Balthier breathed, his expression and tone hungry (and Gods, he wanted the pirate so badly now, wanted that lithe frame arched beneath him, wanted to hear his name in that velvety tone, hitched in want). "Old man, you-"

A knock on the door caused Balthier to jerk upright and Basch to stifle a curse. Balthier was the first to find his voice, snappish, "_Whoever the fuck you are_-"

"Balthier. There are others." To him, Fran's voice seemed like her dispassionate self, but Balthier was immediately tense under his hands, his eyes narrowing.

"Who?"

"Feng-yin's brother. They know we are here."

--

Basch had been expecting some sort of army, or evidence of invasion, as he followed Balthier out to the commons room, but in a way the flickering holo shape standing by the table was worse. Hu-sheng looked a little like his sister, in the curve of their chins and the arch of their brow, but his almond-shaped eyes were cold, dispassionate, and, uncomfortably, reminded Basch of Draketongue. His hair was combed under an ornately stitched, squarish hat; that and his flowing robes were iridescent, dark blue silk, also richly embroidered with golden designs of animals that Basch could not recognize.

"Ah. The rest of your… entourage," Hu-sheng said, his voice with an edge of reverberation that seemed artificial.

At Balthier's questioning glance, Feng-yin murmured, "A translation spell. This projection spell materialized but moments ago." She was so pale that it seemed her bronzed skin had been leached of all color, and Basch supposed he could not blame her for her wary fear. There was no way Hu-sheng could have known of their arrival, as esoteric as the method had been.

"How…" he began, but Balthier held up a palm, cutting him off.

"Your delightful brother?" he drawled. At Feng-yin's tight nod, the pirate stuck both his thumbs into his breeches and glared at the projection. "So, how did you find us?"

"By having lookouts posted at most of the coastal villages within potential range of your landing for sightings of a dragon rising from the mist," Hu-sheng said calmly, seeming not the least offended by Balthier's studied insolence. "Luck."

"You could not have known we were coming!" Feng-yin burst out, then. "How did you even know I was alive?"

"Some matters we should best discuss in Leicheng, dear sister," Hu-sheng said, and there was a dark amusement in his address that made her curl her nails into her palms. "But we have had our ways of tracking you since the beginning."

"But I took nothing from the Old…" Feng-yin paused then, suddenly, and turned sharply to look at Vaan.

"What?" the boy yelped nervously, then looked down at his hands, where he held the face-changing mask. "Oh." Vaan immediately dropped the mask on the table, as though burned, the metallic clink loud in the immediate silence.

"Draketongue gave that to me." Feng-yin said, slowly, accusingly. "Did _he_ know?"

"Most assuredly, dear sister. And as you can no doubt see, you understand nothing of what has happened to you but what we have intended." A thin smile. "I have mages awaiting you on the beach below your craft. Whether you wish to bring your… friends… will be your decision." At that, the projection flickered once again, and faded away.

There was a long, strained pause, then Vaan sighed. "So we dyed our hair for nothing?"

Balthier stared at the boy until he blushed, but Feng-yin had to stifle a laugh, though the sound was cracked, brittle. Basch walked over to the table, and picked up the mask, studying it in his hands, felt the warmth of infused magic through his fingertips. "This was Draketongue's?"

"Aye. He gave it to us on our escape. Told her to use it to hide herself for the month that I was supposed to look after her." Balthier said, his tone low, on the verge of anger. But then, Basch knew, if humorlessly now, the pirate _loathed_ being manipulated. "What else do we _not_ know?"

"Balthier," Basch warned. Feng-yin had her eyes fixed on the ground, trembling, her lip indented and reddened by her teeth: what she had just understood of the last half a year, mayhap longer, was crumbling under her feet.

The pirate swung his angry gaze at Basch, then seemed to relax with an effort, looking past his shoulder. At _Fran_, likely – and this at a poor moment – Basch himself had to stifle an ugly knot that spiked in his belly. When he next met the pirate's eyes, there was a faint smile toying at Balthier's lips, all too quickly gone. _Damnation_.

"What do we do, Balthier?" Penelo asked, not noticing the silent exchange. "It's a trap…"

"We intended to go to _Leicheng_ all along," Balthier cut in smoothly. "This means we do not need a disguise, after all. Perhaps 'tis for the best." He looked hard at Feng-yin as he said this.

"You can't be _serious_, Balthier," Vaan argued. "It's a trap, that's what it is! We don't know what's happening, and now you want to throw yourself into it?"

"Myself?" the other pirate repeated, rolling the word on his tongue.

Vaan stared at him, then blinked, glanced at Penelo, who slapped her palms on the table. "Balthier! You can't be _suggesting_ that we let her go by herself? She's also a _friend_. We can't just-"

"But it would be safe if you left. If I went myself," Feng-yin said, looking up then, taking the mask from Basch. "No doubt all of you are free to leave."

"They tried to kill you once already," Vaan pointed out.

"We don't know that, Vaan," Balthier cut in, his tone cold. "We _know_ that she was seemingly assassinated, _but_ that unknown to the rest of the world Draketongue 'saved' her by cutting a deal with me."

"So they'll just kill her again!"

"I doubt that, if 'they' have already gone to so much trouble to feign her death," Balthier said flatly. "Is there something you have not told us, _Princess_?"

"No. Nothing. I went to Draketongue to study Ivalice. Then I thought my father sought my death. That is all." Feng-yin's tone was beseeching, almost wild. "_That is all I know_." Her hands were white-knuckled now. "But you need not believe me. Better you leave. I want you to leave. You've all been friend to me when you did not need to and-"

"Vaan and I are going with you," Penelo said, stoutly, as Vaan nodded behind her. "If you're going to go. Trap or not."

"As I will," Basch found himself saying. "I like this not, but I did come to the Old Kingdom to try and stop the war."

"You're all insane, as far as I am concerned," Balthier snapped. "We're absolutely out on a limb, here – we have no _idea_ what is-"

"Then leave. Or stay here and wait for us." Basch said, meeting the pirate's eyes, narrowed in anger, frustration – Balthier was the first to look away, as if in disgust. And that _hurt_ – his throat clenched – but he hid it, with some effort, forcing his glance away, to Feng-yin.

"Bloody knights and your bloody need to rescue fucking damsels," Balthier growled, and looked to Fran, questioning.

The Viera regarded him with her inhuman calm, for a long moment, and then inclined her head. "I believe her." Fran said simply, and Basch could see her words had an immediate effect on Balthier – his shoulders slumped, he took a deep breath, then exhaled, long and low, closing his eyes.

"I am sorry, Balthier," Feng-yin said, quietly.

Balthier rubbed his eyes, then he smiled, if wanly. "Well! I suppose that complications are the spice of life. And we did intend to accompany you to the city from the beginning. A little further insanity perhaps would not go amiss."

"But I agree with you. And I know my brother. It would be better if you were not to come-"

"Madness is contagious, I think." Balthier sighed. "I'll go wash this damned dye off. Let your brother wait a little longer."

-tbc-


	16. The Vessel

[A/N: this probably feels sped up, owell. I wrote this fic increasingly more as though I were describing a game… XD;; So you can imagine the lovely episodic random violent encounters to your satisfaction.

"_The Old Kingdom is a continent that would not have Hume population but for the sky kings, buried deep in the Miststorms, unlike other Hume-populated continents such as Ivalice, which lie on its outskirts. It is not known why the sky kings appear to exist only in their boundary around the Old Kingdom; scholars have posited that the relatively calmer wind belt upon which the continent bestrides may be its reason, that as massive as the sky kings are, they would be powerless against the gales deeper in the Mist, vulnerable to being blown out of the Miststorms itself, where a worm victim to such would have simply starved and perished. To this regard, Balthier's comment on his first sight of these otherworldly creatures was that of amazement and amused disgust-_"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

16

The vessel

Basch was almost expecting another Draketongue Manse when the mages teleported them, but the scenery faded from the beach into a walled garden, the grass beautifully trimmed, every white rock that lined the man-made stream carefully in place. The garden was a large as the Solidor grounds, and had an even more esoteric selection of inhabitants – from the other side of the stream, white deer regarded them with incurious eyes, while parrots with iridescent wings roosted on the gnarled branches of shaped trees. They were escorted by the silent, robed mages to a pavilion set in the center of the garden, a delicate structure of varnished redwood strewn with white silk cushions.

Behind the pavilion, there was a mansion with sloping, green slate roofs edged with serpentine dragons, and a tower beyond that with odd borders of the same sloping slate marking each floor.

Guards ringed the pavilion as they approached it, dressed in the heavy overlapping scale plate armor that Basch had previously seen on the escort of the Old Kingdom 'representatives' that had visited the Department. Seated primly on the cushions in the pavilion, his hands in his lap, was Hu-sheng, his eyes cold as he inclined his head to them in greeting and gestured for them to have a seat.

When they had settled opposite him, he began, his tone measured, crisp, in the musical, formal tongue of the Old Kingdom. Feng-yin answered him haltingly at first, then sharply, and he frowned, then gestured at one of the mages, who drew a rune in the air.

"There." Hu-sheng said then, with the echo of the translation spell in his words. "If you wish the foreign creatures to know what is best hidden from them, that is your judgment, sister."

"They have been my companions and my friends since the Manse." Feng-yin said flatly. "I won't hide from them."

"If you wish." Hu-sheng made no attempt to hide his disdain, and Basch felt the children tense, seated beside him: he put a hand warningly on Vaan's shoulder.

"And I want your word that they will be allowed to return safely to the _Strahl_."

"Gladly. I personally do not want them here longer than necessary. _You_ were the one who requested their presence," Hu-sheng stared hard at his sister, who did not drop her eyes. So there was _some_ steel in the girl after all, Basch thought – before, she had always seemed to him but a simple child born to the wrong family and repeatedly caught in the poorest of circumstances, startled at her fate and only able to react to it, not change it. _So unlike Ashelia._

"You said you were going to explain. About this." Feng-yin tossed the mask to her brother's feet. He leant back, his eyes hooded.

"We needed to make you seem dead before the Kingdom. And we needed a… diversion." Hu-sheng smiled thinly, coldly amused, as Feng-yin's eyes narrowed in anger.

"A diversion? Your war?" Balthier's tone was icy.

"Indeed. We would not truly have started a war with the Empire, of course." Hu-sheng turned his gaze to Basch for a brief moment. "The resources required may not have received the approval of the God-Emperor. But the _promise_ of war was sufficient… in this case."

"Father knows."

"Of course. After all, this entire matter was of his weaving. Beginning from your birth. We have hidden you from the other Houses, allowed you – as the second Heir-apparent – to run like a street brat, as you pleased, seemingly out of favor; kept them busy with scandal, exiling me to this city. And then the war."

"For what purpose?"

Hu-sheng chuckled. "Do you know how the God-Emperors are chosen, sister?" When she looked away, he shook his head. "No. I suppose we never did tell you, for safety. There are twelve Houses in the Old Kingdom who are to rule in a cycle, with the sacred beast of each House possessing a worthy vessel each time the cycle turns."

"I don't…" Feng-yin faltered, just as the children and Balthier, catching the line of suggestion, stared at her. "But after the Golden Lion, the next is the Red Snake… the White Dragon is four cycles away!"

"It is as you say, were the cycles unbroken. But the Golden Lion – the current God Emperor – has been on the throne four cycles too long. He has done so by destroying the vessels of his successors each time they are born and announced. Usually, by seemingly natural phenomenon." Hu-sheng's tone continued to be dispassionate. "So when _you_ were born, sister, we kept your birth secret, lied about the date and the time, your auspice."

"But I…"

"Our Lord Father knew that eventually, the God-Emperor will discover what we have done. So we have turned his gaze elsewhere, and then hid you – by apparently destroying you. Now much of the armies of our Empire are past the Gates, and he does not know you are alive." A cold smile. "Does not know how many of the White Dragon have already returned."

And Basch had wondered why at times it had seemed so _compact_, the beginnings of Ivalice's invasion, so _convenient_. He was well past astonishment and grudging admiration at what had evidently been a decades-long, intricate scheme that had the brutal audacity to consume entire _continents_. Puppets. And the knowledge opened far more questions than it settled. A quick glance at the faces of the rest told him he was not alone in this opinion – Balthier, in particular, was evidently furious, but seemed to be holding his tongue out of sheer curiosity.

"Where is Lord Father, then?" Feng-yin demanded, pale.

"His absence would be missed most of all. He cannot leave until it is time."

"I saw what you did to the… your banishment… are you telling me all that was _feigned_?"

"The cycles should not be unbroken. And it is the time of the Dragon." Hu-sheng said evenly.

Balthier growled, "So you'll have us believe that everything that has happened to date has been _your_ doing?"

"We have used foreigners other than the one known as Draketongue, of course. Studied the Mist and your 'glossair' engines for longer than you know." Hu-sheng inclined his head. "Decades ago we sent a foreigner to Rozarria's Margrace Laboratories to work, to wait, sent foreigners to the Black Lotus of Rozarria to instigate and abet its growing brutality. We had Draketongue in Ivalice. Eventually, the Laboratory's plant's 'proposal' of the prototype gained attention. Of course, we did not tell them everything. They _are_ foreigners."

"The prototype did not work. It could not." Balthier argued flatly.

"It did not. But within it, it had blueprints, did it not?" Hu-sheng smiled faintly. "Theories about 'synchronicity', different grades of 'synchronicity'. A leap of logic not obvious to most, perhaps, only to genius, or to those who already spend all their lives dependent on airships. Tell me, Cidolfus Bunana's son, how did you 'invent' the glossair engine that allowed you to cross the Miststorms?"

Balthier's expression seemed to freeze, then become unreadable, his lip twisting briefly. "Devious bastards."

"So why draw me back here?" Feng-yin now sounded tired, defeated.

"The time taken for Balthier – or whoever Draketongue could have found who could have the capacity to make the leap of logic – to craft the engine and fly to the Old Kingdom was flexible. We only needed you to return, eventually." Hu-sheng said, with a brief shrug.

"And if I did not?"

Dispassionate eyes turned to Balthier, then back to Feng-yin. "I think it a good wager. But if you tarried many a year, mayhap we would have simply come for you, if need be."

"Then what am I to do now, that I have returned? We are to march on the Imperial City?" Feng-yin's tone was low, bitter. "Start a war here?"

"No. And even if we were – not _you_." Hu-sheng said, with a cold smile. "You are the _vessel_, Feng-yin. Your purpose ends when you receive the Dragon. As you will in the temple beneath Leicheng."

"Feng-yin," Vaan began, sharply, "I don't like how this-"

"No, Vaan. Now I understand," Feng-yin said, turning to regard them, her expression grim, blank. "I think I finally understand."

--

They were firmly escorted to a set of guest chambers and locked in, sans the Princess. The chambers were at _least_ fairly luxurious, Balthier felt, with silks at the windows, scented wood furniture, and a platter of fruit and refreshments that nobody was touching. Fran stood by the large windows overlooking the drop to the gardens, Vaan and Penelo slumped onto a couch, and Basch sat down at the round dining table. He was pacing, swinging his gaze restlessly from table to the doors to the four bedchambers and back again, irritable.

They would be free to go, Hu-sheng said, after the ritual. This highly suggested to Balthier that the so-called ritual was likely to be harmful in some way to Feng-yin, that they might think of interfering. Being locked in the guest chambers was also a pretty good indication. And from the expressions of his companions, he could tell he wasn't the only one who had arrived at this conclusion.

"So, we break out? I can probably pick that lock," Vaan began by saying.

"There are guards outside and they took our weapons." Balthier pointed out. "Also, I cannot seem to use magic at the moment, so they probably have some sort of suppressor."

"And then we don't know where this temple is." Penelo agreed.

"'Tis likely beneath this damn building in the first place." Balthier muttered. "But you're right. We do not know where the temple is. For all we know, she could already be in another castle."

"So we break out of here, and then make someone tell us," Vaan said stoutly.

"None of the guards speak our language."

"The mages can. We can find one of them. Maybe they can even teleport us there." Vaan countered, getting up and walking over to the door.

"If we first do not get slaughtered by the guards," Balthier said dryly, then arched an eyebrow at Basch, who had placed the fruit and refreshments carefully on a chair so as to be able to take off the heavy tapestry that covered the table.

"No sense in breaking anything," the Judge said, with a faint smile, standing behind Vaan as the boy took a curl of wire out that was hidden in the hem of his breeches, deftly picking the door.

Balthier sighed. "What the hell are you doing?"

The door swung open, inwards. Basch threw the tapestry deftly over the head of one of the startled guards, grabbed the haft of the halberd of the other and yanked it out of his hands, swung the end of the pole up to smash against his temple, then reversed it fluidly to do the same to the other guard. Both men dropped like stones, as Vaan laughed.

"We'll lock them in here," Basch said, not even out of breath, and – thankfully – not noticing the heightened color in Balthier's cheeks. _Gods_, the man was… Balthier looked away quickly, and met Fran's eyes. She smiled, very faintly, hunched in a Viera's silent laughter.

--

After several false starts and episodic random violence they made their way slowly to the ground floor of the mansion. Once past the guest chambers the magic returned, and stronger – likely due to the faint saturation of Mist in the Old Kingdom, Balthier surmised, watching Fran and Penelo pull off spells with greater ease and less effort than they ever had before.

The sound of chanting was getting louder, at least, which was comforting. Perhaps the damned temple was under this damned house after all.

--

They found their gear locked in a storeroom after an accidental excursion into the guardsroom, during which Vaan asked Balthier, who hefted his Arcturus with relief, what he had done to the Zodiac Spear.

"It's in the _Strahl_. Rifles are my preferred weapon." Balthier said, with a glance at Basch. "What did _you_ do to Excalibur?"

Basch looked slightly embarrassed. "I gave it to Zargabaath. After all, I had to get used to wearing these." He patted Judgment and Sentence, at his hips.

"You _gave_ it to Zargabaath?" Balthier repeated, disbelieving. "After this fucking brat forced us to wander two bloody hours in _Giruvegan_ for it?"

"What about Masamune?" Vaan inquired. "Though, getting that was pretty fun."

"Sometimes I still remember these 'pretty fun' episodes at, say, three in the morning when I've eaten something that doesn't agree with me," Balthier growled. "So, what did you do to Masamune, Basch? Used it as a doorstop? Gave it to Larsa?"

"'Tis framed in my chambers. Though," Basch added dryly, "If we must continue this vein of conversation I might give it to my chief associate when I return to Archades."

--

By the time they found the entrance to what was likely the underground temple the door was closing – three mages stood over a circular stone trapdoor that had almost covered a dark stairway leading further down, on its dark pitted surface a mother-of-pearl design of a dragon. Shooting one of the mages in the head stopped the spell, at least, and Basch had taken care of the other two with his blades in the next, as Penelo called Flare onto the guards.

Vaan edged out over the scorched carpet to the gap, avoiding the burned bodies, and pushed experimentally at the stone. It didn't budge. "Maybe we shouldn't have killed them?"

"Spur of the moment." Balthier shrugged. The hole was large enough only for someone of slighter stature to fit through, and it seemed Vaan knew this as well – with some muttered curses, he managed to wriggle through the gap and onto the descending star. "Vaan!"

"It's okay. I don't see anyone else here. Hey, Penelo… don't…"

Penelo had slipped through as well, with a low curse that made Basch arch an eyebrow. "There. We'll be fine, Balthier. Just you wait there."

"See, we told you it'll be a good idea to bring us along," Vaan added, with a grin that Balthier could see even in the dark.

The pirate sighed. Fucking _brats_. "We'll try and find another way to open this damned thing. Don't get into trouble."

"We _won't_." The sound of pattering feet told Balthier that the brats had scampered down the stairway. Helplessly, he looked at Basch, who shrugged at him and began to examine the room.

"I doubt there is a mechanism to open this," Balthier said, inspecting the groove within which the stone was sliding. "Needs magic."

"Eventually they will come and open this," Basch said, with a glance at Fran, who nodded. "They do want Feng-yin to get out, after all."

"Guards," Fran warned softly, flicking back an ear. "They are above."

"So we hold the fort until the brats return." Balthier pointed his rifle at the door, his smile feral. "Is that the plan?"

"I cannot say that I see any other choice." Basch replied, finishing his circle of the room and waiting by the door, blades bared. Oddly enough, the man seemed almost _comfortable_, out of civilization and his brother's armor and back in another insane adventure. He would have made a half decent pirate, Balthier thought, a little critically, and felt slightly disconcerted at his own wistfulness (good Gods, _place_ and _time_).

Fran was probably laughing at him again.

--

"We have to hurry. They'll probably keep throwing guards at them," Vaan said, jerking his thumb back in the direction they had come. Penelo had created a small bobbing light that followed them, illuminating the narrow, high corridors of stone that turned ever downwards in a winding stair, chipped and crumbling, the air musty, long-buried.

"That much is obvious, Vaan," Penelo said, though he could sense her tension. Penelo always tried to keep a brave face, even when the weirdest problems happened, Vaan felt. He hoped it wasn't for his sake, though he probably would not know what to do were she ever panicked and hysterical. "I think they'll be fine."

"I thought Basch would be out of practice, what with all that soft living," Vaan said, not bothering with how his voice was echoing down the stairwell. There had only been one set of footprints descending in the dust, and that was probably Feng-yin's.

"He'll catch up quickly, to keep up with Balthier," Penelo said, and giggled. "Honestly, those two."

"Adults can be so _weird_," Vaan agreed. Why did they have to make things so complicated? It was fairly obvious to Vaan and Penelo that both Basch and Balthier _liked_ each other: Basch's eyes were almost always on the pirate (so they thought), and Balthier seemed to make it a point to try and quarrel with Basch at least a few times a day (so its seemed), for all that he had told the children before that Basch was really a 'walking weapon', even _before_, when they were still around Ashe. And besides, Balthier was bloody noisy.

"Maybe we have to help them along a little more." The play had been a pretty good idea, even for Penelo.

Vaan liked her ideas, they tended to be fun, and they also tended to _work_. He'd have bet that Basch never even thought that a relationship could be possible until that point, though Penelo admittedly had to hammer it in with some comments afterwards. Seriously, did Basch never see how there was something special in how they tended to bicker? Balthier had never bickered with anyone else in the party, and the Gods knew Vaan sometimes asked a lot of them.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"I'm still thinking," Penelo admitted. "As far as I can tell they're probably not going to do very much at all about each other because of their jobs. Which is plainly silly."

"Plainly," Vaan agreed, sharing Penelo's grasp of fundamental realities. "In any case, Balthier could always settle down, or something. You see how he's like with puzzles. He loves them almost as much as flying, he just tries not to show it."

"He's in love with _being_ a sky pirate," Penelo nodded. "So… ah, here we are."

The stairway ended at a square antechamber seemingly hewn out of solid rock, rough, undecorated: it opened in turn into another chamber, within which they could see Feng-yin, at the very end, with her hands on some sort of coiled serpentine statue half her height; in front of her, Hu-sheng, who was staring at them in surprise.

He said something harshly in his tongue, just as Penelo quickly reacted, casting a Stop spell that froze his words in his throat and his limbs in place. Just as quickly, Vaan rushed past Hu-sheng into the room, clapping a hand on Feng-yin's shoulder.

"We're here! You're safe. We had better get out of here before the spell ends, the rest are upstairs…" Vaan trailed off as Feng-yin turned around.

Her skin seemed to _glow_, as though lit from within by a pale light, turning the bronze of her skin a soft gold, and her black hair floated away from her shoulders as though she was immersed in a restless current. Her black eyes were now pure white, and they regarded him oddly, blankly.

"Uh oh." Penelo murmured, as the statue under Feng-yin's palms began to crumble, and tiny white scales dusted the girl's cheeks, her arms, her fingers turning into claws; the girl shook herself, as iridescent fins lengthened from behind her ears, and when she bared her teeth, briefly, the canines seemed to be lengthening, _sharpening_.

When Feng-yin spoke, they heard her voice in their minds, sibilant, _inhuman, _a roar of sound that caused them both to clap their hands reflexively over their ears.

_WHO AM I? WHAT AM I? ARE YOU THE MASTER?_

"What are you talking about?" Vaan asked, puzzled. "You're Feng-yin. And you are free."

"Vaan, I don't think that's…" Penelo paused, as the girl bowed her head, her shoulders trembling, then yelped, as a shockwave rippled outward from Feng-yin's slender form, knocking both pirates from their feet, cracking the walls and causing stone to groan under the stress. Under Feng-yin's feet, the tiles shattered, as though punched inward by a massive weight; sound roared in their ears like the winds of a thunderstorm.

_**YES**_, said the dragon.

-tbc-


	17. Remnant of the fallen

[A/N: It seems that when Feng-yin first appeared her name was Zheng-yin. Oops. XD She was originally meant to be a very minor character, so I'm not sure what happened. Also, formatting italicized conversation is the most annoying thing ever. Microsoft Word seems to have this auto-Heading thing

"_The God-Emperor is the sacred beast of the current cycle as incarnated within a chosen vessel born of the clan of its blood. The twelve clans of the Old Kingdom in chronology of cycle are: Golden Lion, Red Snake, Gray Wolf, Iron Boar, White Dragon, Black Crane, Bronze Buffalo, Green Monkey, Silver Hare, Blue Horse. Each cycle is not fixed relative to Hume time, but with accords to unknown agreements between the beasts themselves. Written history records that two cycles have passed to this date._"

-Excerpts from _Piracy after the Succession War_, by David Walsinram, University of Archadia Press

Rules of Engagement

17

Remnant of the former

_And then_… it was _free_.

--

They were arrested again eventually, due to increasing odds, though, Balthier's opinion notwithstanding, there wasn't _that_ much they could have done. Basch kept his peace as they were cuffed, watching mages reopen the chamber, and prayed to whatever deity had overseen their remarkable run of luck to date that the children would not be harmed.

Eventually, both Vaan and Penelo were manhandled out of the stairwell, looking bruised but well, little pirate pups snarling abuse at their captors with words that made Balthier chuckle and Basch raise an eyebrow. Vaan stopped short at "… and you whoreson motherf…" and grinned impishly to see them. "Looks like you guys were caught too, huh?"

"Naturally," Balthier said dryly. "Where's the girl?"

"Um." The children looked somewhat hesitant, then Vaan said "About that" just as Penelo chipped in with "It's not his fault Balthier" that made Basch close his eyes momentarily.

Gods. What _had_ they done _now_?

"What," Balthier said slowly, "the _fuck_ did the two of you do?"

"Caused untold disaster," the controlled, translated voice of Hu-sheng, as the man emerged behind the children followed by mages, was now vibrating with barely suppressed fury. "They have unleashed the dragon."

"How was I supposed to _know_-" Vaan began, indignant, as Balthier frowned, "What?" At his glare, Vaan subsided, and the older pirate cocked his head. "Did you not _intend_ to release this so-called dragon?"

"Under ritual. Under ancient oath," Hu-sheng said tightly. "The words one is to say to the Dragon upon its awakening are: You are servant. You are Emperor. And we are the blood of your blood."

"And what," Balthier sighed, "Did the two of you say?"

"Feng-yin – or the dragon, or whatever – asked who she was and whether I was the master," Vaan said, slightly defiantly now, "What was I supposed to say? I said she was Feng-yin, and that she was free, _naturally_."

"It's only _naturally_ according to your logic, brat," Balthier snapped, though a smile twitched momentarily at his lips. Evidently, something about the entire situation appealed to the pirate's esoteric sense of humor, despite everything. "Good Gods. So where is she now?"

"Went through the roof. Literally," Vaan added. "That's… not good, is it?"

"Throw them into the dungeons," Hu-sheng snarled then, at the guards. "Let my Lord Father decide their fate."

--

"I am not angry," Balthier said dryly, when Vaan asked, later. The party had been manacled and thrown into cell that stank of human refuse and rotting straw. Fran opted to stand, near the doors, her ears occasionally twitching at the sounds of wet, gargling groans from other inhabitants of the thankfully dark cells. Basch and Balthier sat on one bunk, the children on the other, and since he didn't particularly want to know what leaning against the walls would do to his vest, Balthier settled for leaning against Basch (and this was the only reason).

"That's good," Vaan said, with some relief. "I don't think she's hurt."

The doubt in the boy's voice made Balthier frown. "Why, what did you see?"

"Her eyes were weird. White. And she had these little scales over her cheeks and arms," Penelo supplied. "Maybe we were already too late."

"Yeah. Maybe we were." Vaan said sadly. "She didn't look Hume anymore when we got to here. Maybe we can reverse it somehow."

The eternal optimism of the brat was incredible, Balthier felt. He didn't quite think the process _reversible_, not after all that talk about vessels and Feng-yin's expression when she had said she had understood. Though, optimism aside… he turned, trying to make out Basch's expression in the gloom. The Judge seemed distracted, his elbows on his thighs, thinking, and for some reason the fact that Basch was thinking about something _else_ other than _listening_ irritated Balthier, a little. He patted Basch a little sharply on a thigh, and the man turned to look at him, blinking.

"Balthier?"

"Thought of a plan yet?" He didn't _intend_ to sound so catty, but Basch wasn't one to lose his temper, in any case. He'd actually thought it impossible: the man could be irritated, but Balthier had never seen him angry, not at _him_, not at his brother. Basch's relentless stoicism annoyed the hell out of Balthier.

"No. But it does seem as though we have already accomplished what we have set out to do." Basch said, interrupting his thought, and when Balthier raised an eyebrow, added, wryly, "Stopped the war. I would imagine from the panic shown by Hu-sheng that a withdrawal of forces from Ivalice would soon occur."

"For now. Maybe. If at all." Balthier said doubtfully, though he agreed with Basch. Vaan had just unleashed _something _on the Old Kingdom, and all by accident. He thought back on Hu-sheng's voice, his expression, and decided, a little maliciously, that he had enjoyed the man's fear. Served the bastards _right_. If they didn't decide to execute them for it.

"If we aren't killed for it," Basch added, voicing his thought. "Though since we have _not_ been executed yet, perhaps-"

"Perhaps they just wish to torture us to death first," Balthier said blandly. He felt Basch wince, against his shoulder.

"_Balthier_."

"And the locks are magical this time," Vaan added. "Can't pick _those_. So we're screwed."

"In a word, yes. Probably." Balthier relaxed further. Basch was warm, and the sweat-musk-scent of the man was _clean_, somehow, comforting; he shifted further until he could lean his head on the muscular curve of a shoulder, half-lidding his eyes. Basch shifted, carefully, muscle flexing against his cheek, then Balthier felt the tentative press of fingers against his hip, the heavy weight of an arm across his lower back. He wondered whether to allow the intimacy, then decided he couldn't muster the effort, given the circumstances, even when he felt the bristly curve of Basch's chin against his skull.

"You don't sound worried at all," Penelo said, accusingly, though there was a note of hope in her voice. "Do you have a plan?"

"Not as yet. But the fact that we have not yet been killed bodes well. Perhaps they think we can be useful. After all, you did say 'you are Feng-yin'. Maybe they believe we can somehow be ransomed for her good behavior. Something terribly predictable."

"But if she's like that now, I don't know, Balthier," Penelo said soberly. "Like Vaan, I think – I don't think she's Hume anymore."

"But they do not know that," Balthier pointed out. "And we do not know for certain. Though I do think the trigger for this entire escalating mess was the 'and you are free'."

"What was I supposed to say… ouch!" Vaan's mulish mutter was cut off by the sound of someone punching his arm. "_Penelo_."

"What do you think she's doing, though?" Penelo asked.

"With any luck, wrecking havoc," Balthier muttered, stiffening for a moment, uncomfortable, as Basch chuckled, felt the vibration of the laugh against his scalp. The easy intimacy was beginning to disconcert him, the way it felt as though matters were simply settling into a well-worn groove. It was the stress of the situation, probably, the primal comfort of physical closeness. He didn't move. "That is probably our best bet."

--

It could have _moved_ there, but it took pleasure in the sheer freedom of flight, the wind screaming in its ears and tugging violently at the long head fur of its vessel, dragging the clouds in its wake. It could sense its awakened brother, closer, _closer_. It would free it as well, and _then_…

_No._

The dragon frowned, halting above the Imperial city. _No?_ But the voice had come from deep within it, almost as though… as though from the vessel itself. It shook its head, confused – this, its memory did not remember – but then it recalled the words of the Hume youngling that had freed it. _You are Feng-yin_.

_Yes._

_What do you want?_ It asked, somewhat suspiciously. Frost was forming on its wrists, its fingers, like a pale, filmy gauntlet. It wanted to revel in its power, to destroy the city it saw before it, crush the lives of the Humes that had dared enslave it and its brethren in an eternity of servitude.

_You are our Emperors._

That it had never chosen. _We are your puppets._ It had dreamt for two cycles, dreamt of hatred, war, dreamt of flight and clouds and _freedom_.

_You are our Emperors._

_We never wished to rule,_ the dragon argued, twisting around in the winds as if to seek out a presence that was not there. _We slept for centuries as the magic faded. Then wingless, weak little warm things… _They had been taken by surprise, the raw belief of Godhood from the Humes shaped by a natural affinity of the little creatures for the Mist, shackled the sleeping spirits to this continent so thin of the storms.

_There must be peace. There must be an Emperor._

The dragon hissed, bared the blunt teeth of its vessel. _Rule yourselves_. It sensed the resistance the echo of the vessel had to this idea with some satisfaction. _Can you not? The other Humes do_.

_Absolute order…_

_Is not to be imposed._ The vessel was growing confused, upset, and it made the dragon feel uneasy, caused an ache in the confines of its restricted flesh-blood mind. _I will free the rest of us. And then-_

_No._

_And then we shall see,_ the dragon said, firmly, descending through the clouds, towards an ornate red and gold pagoda that it could see, set in the center of a stepped courtyard, the very center of Yangchen.

_NO!_

The mental force of the word took the dragon by surprise – for a moment it lost control of the flows of magic, dropping in the air, panicked, before managing to keep flight again. Its instinctive fear-anger-hatred was met with a wall of stubbornness, which threatened to strike at him again were he ever to let down his guard. Irritated and confused, the dragon stopped again, floating, then calmed itself with the patience of an immortal. _Child…_

_There must be an Emperor._ The insistence seemed uncertain, now. _Or…_

_Is it not better to be governed by other Humes, child? _The dragon felt amused, despite everything, at the vessel's stubbornness. Humes were a strange race that needed yet loathed absolutes, who could devise such encompassing changes in their fates and yet fall victim to the details. _This way, we free each other._ _Perhaps not now, perhaps in the future, but…_

_But there will be war!_

_That is always the habit of YOUR kind._ The dragon descended to the courtyard, the stone cracking under its naked feet as it stood but uncertainly on the earth. _But you will have your peace. Your kind will war with ours, until I have freed the others, and in their necessary unity will be your peace._ The vessel did not answer. _After all, you do not want peace, do you? You want a future. You want the clans to stop their eternal quarrels._

_I want…_

--

The Dragonlord Yu-Zhang was not a tall man, perhaps only half a hand's breadth from Feng-Yin, but his presence commanded the audience chamber that they were shown into, his almond eyes sharp and imperious in an ascetic face too angular to be handsome. His compact frame was dressed in well-worn enamel armor with no adornments. A scimitar in its scabbard lay across his lap, and his hands rested on the arms of the white stone throne.

Guards lined the sides of the chamber, with its framed scrolls of calligraphy, and Hu-sheng stood behind the throne, looking impassive.

To Balthier's surprise, Yu-Zhang spoke to them without the aid of a translator, though his voice was thickly accented. "You are the ones who freed the dragon."

"By accident," Balthier allowed, warily.

Yu-Zhang turned to regard his son, and now his voice took on the echoing sound of translation. "You should have had them executed."

"I apologize, Lord Father." Hu-sheng's eyes flickered briefly to them. "But I felt that it may unduly affect the transition, where a remnant to remain in the vessel."

"And," Yu-Zhang continued, his tone flat, "You should have waited for my arrival before beginning the ritual. The strength of the Clan was still in transition. Unless," he added, when Hu-sheng said nothing, "You wished to use words other than the ritual."

"I was concerned that she would be persuaded to escape, Lord Father," Hu-sheng said tightly. "By these foreigners."

"Feng-yin's concern was the war. She would have been willing to wait, at the very least, until she could speak with me. Instead, your transparent attempt to bind the dragon in service to _yourself, _heedless of the wishes of the clan, may have cost us more than we can afford." Yu-Zhang turned his imperious stare upwards, at his son, who, flushing, looked away. "As to the rest of you – it may be possible that the words you have uttered, all unthinking, have created a remnant in the vessel."

"A remnant?" Vaan repeated.

"Sometimes the change is incomplete: a shard of the vessel's former self is retained. Usually it erodes after a year." Yu-Zhang smiled, merciless. "But the Dragon is one of the strongest and most elemental of the beasts. I do not believe there is much of her remaining. A pity, for now there may be no way of controlling it."

"Then why not have us killed?" Balthier drawled, gambling yet again. "You think there may be enough of her will left that we can make it pliable."

"Or amenable to discussion." Yu-Zhang inclined his head. "You are all guests. For now. Do try not to leave. My patience has already been worn thin, and I would not be above removing your legs to prevent all of you from being difficult."

--

The odds weren't good, and Basch was not a betting man. They were back in the guest chambers, and this time round Vaan was making no attempt to pick the lock on the door. Besides, they could see, from the window, the edge of the White Dragon encampment outside the walled garden, and it was not particularly reassuring. Besides, they had no real idea how to get back to the _Strahl_, having come here by teleport.

Having drawn an early blank, Basch had admitted weariness, left the rest to argue amongst themselves, and retired to one of the bedrooms, to shuck off his boots and shirt and lie on the bed. He was not _that_ weary, but at this moment there was no safe method of escape, that much he could see, and belaboring the point with disagreements seemed counter productive.

Still, they _had_ stopped the war. Likely. Basch could not but help feel somewhat amused at that, as much as it was by sheer accident. If he did in fact perish from this adventure, he supposed he could count it fair trade. Were it only himself. But Balthier… that was another matter, though the pirate seemed unbothered by this turn of events. More of his mental calculations about probability, like as not, and not for the first time, Basch wondered if Balthier was _associating_ with him at the moment based only on mathematics and the objective calculation of risk. He wasn't sure how he would feel were that true.

Besides, Basch had always been uncomfortable with manipulation in any form, and he was sure that Balthier saw through his juvenile attempts easily. He didn't know if the pirate submitted to it out of sheer curiosity or if his fumbling methods amused him in some way, though he suspected it was likely the latter. Someone like Balthier likely was used to the myriad forms of courtship, and besides, was likely _not_ looking for anything substantial or permanent.

Courtship. Basch disliked the word. He had never been lucky in that respect; his face had drawn admirers before, both in Landis and Dalmasca, but the few he felt inclined to respond to tended too quickly to lose interest before he could find the will to ask them out _properly_. Often it seemed too complicated, and more often, it was merely that he did not want to lose a friendship. But with Balthier, the want seemed to override even the latter… and he was not even sure _why_. The pirate was young, capricious, self-absorbed and arrogant, with little regard for others save where it concerned Fran, and _yet_-

And yet he was in love.

And he would not even have put a name to this uncomfortable state of want-not-want were it not for the children and their innocent games.

He _knew_ Balthier did not return the sentiment. But he supposed that he was glad even just for this, whatever would happen _after_. Perhaps if-

"When you smile to yourself like that, old man, it makes me feel nervous," Balthier said dryly, behind him, and Basch sat up instantly in dizzy confusion. He hadn't heard the pirate enter, watching dumbly as Balthier closed the door noiselessly behind him, pulling out his cravat and folding it on the dresser.

"Why are you…" he began, then cut himself off. Wasn't it obvious? Asking for an explanation would only make him seem juvenile. "The others?"

"Fran decided to rest, so the children are gorging themselves on the food provided. I can only hope that 'tis poisoned." Balthier was shrugging off his vest, then his sandal-boots, then his belts, and somewhere along the line Basch was fairly sure he should say something, do something, other than stare at the sleek curve of pirate's arse in the tight fit of his breeches and wish that it was in his lap. _Right_.

"There were sufficient rooms," he ventured, saying the wrong thing, and blushed when Balthier turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow.

"Not inclined to share?"

"I… I mean, I was just pointing out…" Basch's mind kicked his voice into silence as Balthier very deliberately began to unbutton his shirt, long fingers slowly working the buttons, all the while _smirking_ at his expression, revealing toned, scarred flesh (and he _wanted_ then, to press his lips against-), the flat, hard belly, licked suddenly dry lips as Balthier shrugged off his shirt with the salacious grace of a tavern wench and stalked – _stalked_ – towards the bed. He managed to find his tongue only when straddled, the blanket annoyingly restrictive, his hands going automatically to slender hips. "We're currently…"

"In Leicheng. And if I do recall," Balthier purred, "We were _supposed_ to-"

"Only," Basch said, levelly and deliberately, keeping his hands strictly where they were despite how fingers were sliding hungrily over his shoulders, ignoring how his rational mind told him that this was certainly an inappropriate time and place, how he _knew_ the pirate would recoil, how he wanted, so _much_, to bed the pirate first, just _once_, "Only if you let me make love to you."

Balthier stiffened at that, the playfulness disappearing – his eyes were hard as he stared at Basch, his inviting smile fading. When he spoke, his voice was distant. "Is it at that already?"

"I am sorry." Basch said, quietly, painfully. He wasn't, and the pirate could see that – Balthier glanced away, for a moment, fingers tightening on his shoulders.

"And you planned this from the beginning?" Balthier's tone was now laced with icy venom, biting, with an undercurrent of anger.

"No! I did not know. Not until… I do not know when. I was just… I do not know." Basch bowed his head, then, tried to keep his breathing even. He was foolish, he knew that now, as the pirate took his hands off his shoulders and settled back on his haunches, studying him, his face closed beyond Basch's ability to read.

Finally, Balthier sighed, getting up and slipping off the bed. "Must you complicate matters even _now_?"

Basch didn't answer, listening to the pirate put on his gear with quick efficiency; didn't look up even after the door closed.

-tbc-


End file.
